03 - God King (33 page)

In moments it was over, the wolves destroyed and the battle line restored.
The moans of the wounded were somehow dulled by the oppressive gloom, and the
youngest children dragged those hurt too badly to fight further back onto the
hillside. There was little that could be done for them, but they could do no
more good in the fighting ranks.

Maedbh wiped her sword blade on the grass at her feet and gave her daughter a
weak smile. Ulrike’s face was flushed with a mixture of fear and excitement, the
adrenaline of battle outweighing the thought of facing an army of the dead.

There was no time for words, for the ranks of skeleton warriors in ancient
armour were almost upon them. The wolves had been nothing more than a skirmish
screen to protect the warriors following behind. The dead were less than fifty
paces from the Asoborns, marching in perfect lockstep. Behind them, the vampire
and his horsemen walked their skeletal steeds up the hill, ready to ride down
any mortals who fled the field of battle.

Cold dread settled in Maedbh’s bones, a terrible, suffocating fear of losing
everything that she loved in one fell swoop. She looked into the eyes of the
vampire lord, seeing a lifetime of cruelty and evil. She saw his blood hunger,
and as his army marched onwards, she heard a thunderous rumble, a drumming on
the earth like a distant thunderstorm drawing closer with every passing moment.

A wild series of horn blasts swept the hillside as a dozen ululating brays
came from the trees behind the Asoborn battle line. What new horror had appeared
behind them without warning? She had been so sure the dead would come at them
head on that she hadn’t even considered the possibility that their flank could
be turned.

The horns blew again and Maedbh’s heart leapt as she recognised the sound of
Unberogen war horns. Shapes moved through the trees, galloping horsemen in their
hundreds, but far from being riders of the dead, these were living, breathing
warriors atop wide shouldered, powerful steeds clad in heavy hauberks of iron
scale.

The riders thundered over the brow of the hill and Maedbh let loose a wild
Asoborn war shout as she recognised the warriors at the head of the Unberogen
horsemen. One she called Emperor and the other she called husband.

Sigmar and Wolfgart rode over the brow of the hill, weapons unsheathed and
ready to fight to save those they held dear. Hundreds of Unberogen riders
streamed past Maedbh, along with scores of horsemen armoured in mail shirts and
bronze breastplates with blood-red cloaks. Maedbh recognised them as Taleuten
Red Scythes and their crimson-pennoned lances lowered in glittering unison.

Ghal-Maraz swept up, a shaft of brilliant sunlight breaking through the
unnatural gloom to strike the Emperor’s mighty warhammer and banish the
darkness. Sigmar rode through the trees with his long hair unbound and his
armour glowing with impossible radiance. Such was the skill of his riders that
they rode through the Asoborn battle lines without trampling those they had come
to rescue.

The charge of the Unberogen and Taleuten cavalry was ferocious and it struck
the line of the dead with unstoppable force. The Red Scythes leaned into their
stirrups and their lances punched into the ranks of the dead, skewering skeletal
champions and hoisting them from the ground. Lances splintered with the impact
and the riders drew heavy maces and morning stars as they plunged into the
undead host.

Wolfgart’s vast sword, forged by Govannon less than a year ago, swept from
its shoulder scabbard and no sooner was its blade bared than it clove through
the chest of an undead warrior clad in a rusted shirt of mail. Swords and axes
smashed through bone and patchwork plates of bronze and iron. The dead reeled
from the sudden attack, but did not break. Though hundreds were destroyed in the
opening moments of the Unberogen charge, hundreds more remained to fight.
Sigmar’s cavalry plunged into the heart of the dead, breaking them apart as they
split the host in two.

The dead cared nothing for the suddenness of the attack and merely turned to
face the horsemen whose charge began to slow with the press of skeletal bodies.
Sigmar fought at the centre of the dead army, the Skull-Splitter living up to
its name as it shattered bone and pulverised armour with every blow. The dead
tried to pull away from Sigmar, but he rode into them with ever greater force,
destroying half a dozen with every blow.

Maedbh lifted her sword and charged after the horsemen, and the Asoborns
followed her.

Alaric’s dwarfs marched towards the dead, cutting through their mouldering
ranks like loggers in a forest of saplings. The fear that touched mortal hearts
seemed not to have so strong a hold on the dwarfs, and they broke through with
sweeping strokes of their axes. Though the dead outnumbered the living by nearly
two to one, the dead could not match the skill of those ranged against them.

Sigmar aimed his horse toward the white-cloaked vampire, but if he sought a
duel with the blood drinker he was to be denied satisfaction. Sensing defeat for
his host, the blood drinker turned and rode away, his black horsemen galloping
south as the allies turned to fight the remaining undead warriors.

Attacked from the front and rear, and abandoned by their maker, the host of
the dead began to waver, their physical forms unravelling in the face of mortal
courage and vitality. The battle was far from over, but without the power of the
vampire to bind the dark energies that held them together the dead were falling
apart with every passing moment, like ice before the summer sun.

Horsemen rode through the dead, hacking them down with brutal sweeps of their
swords, while the Asoborns hemmed them in and the dwarfs trampled them with the
pounding force of their relentless advance. Sigmar and Wolfgart rode pell-mell
through the diminishing host, their weapons reaping a magnificent tally of the
dead.

Though it took another hour, the dead could not long linger, and as the last
of the sepulchral twilight faded from the sky, the field belonged to the living.
Sigmar turned his horse and it reared up, pawing the air in triumph, but Maedbh
cared nothing for the sight.

She threw her weapon aside and ran towards her husband with her daughter in
tow.

Wolfgart saw them coming and leapt from his horse, sweeping his wife and
daughter into his arms and holding them so tightly she thought he might break
them. He kissed Maedbh over and over and the intensity of the kiss was magnified
tenfold by the nearness of death. Weeping with relief and the fear of what might
have been lost, Wolfgart, Maedbh and Ulrike laughed and cried to be reunited,
the bitterness and rancour of what had driven them apart forgotten in the rush
of joy sweeping through them.

“You came for us,” said Maedbh, between breaths. “I wished for it and you
came.”

“Of course I came for you,” said Wolfgart, unashamed tears spilling down his
face. “You’re my woman and I love you. And you’re my little girl,” he added,
dropping to his knees to hug Ulrike.

“I thought we’d never see you again,” cried Ulrike.

“Never think that, my beautiful girl,” said Wolfgart. “No matter what
happens, I’ll always be there for you. Not even death can stop me from coming to
you.”

They stayed locked together for many minutes, savouring this moment of
reunion until a horseman rode up to them and Maedbh knew who it would be before
she even opened her eyes.

“Sigmar,” she said, only reluctantly releasing her grip on Wolfgart and
giving a short bow to the Emperor. “Your timing couldn’t be better. You saved us
and you have my undying gratitude.”

Sigmar smiled and said, “It’s your husband you should thank. I was riding for
Reikdorf when my outriders saw them heading east. I wanted to know where he was
going with six hundred of my best horsemen and he told me you were in danger.”

“The Oathstone showed me this battle,” said Wolfgart. “I don’t know how,
Maedbh, but it did. We hand-fastened over it, so maybe there’s some lingering
magic from that moment, something that brought me to you when you needed me
most. I gathered up everyone I could to ride east. Turns out a lot of people
wanted to help me.”

“I know,” said Sigmar, seeing her look of confusion. “I didn’t believe him
either, but he swore he’d ride east alone if need be, so I thought I’d best keep
him safe for you.”

“I’m grateful,” said Maedbh.

Sigmar was about to reply when she saw a shocked expression freeze upon his
face. He was looking past her, and Maedbh knew what it would be before she
turned around. At the top of the hill, Sigulf and Fridleifr laughed and cheered
as Garr and the Queen’s Eagles blooded their cheeks.

“Who are those boys?” demanded Sigmar.

Wolfgart caught up to Sigmar by the river. The Emperor’s head was bowed and
his arms were folded across his chest as he stared off into the distance. This
was going to be difficult, and Wolfgart took a deep breath as he approached.
Right here, right now, Sigmar was not the Emperor, not the ruler of the lands
from the Grey Mountains to the Sea of Claws, he was simply his friend.

Sigmar turned his head as he approached, but said nothing.

They stood by the fast-flowing river, enjoying the sights and sounds and
smells of a land resurgent after the touch of undeath. Water splashed over rocks
and gurgled in pools by the riverbank. Birdsong had returned to the world, not
the raucous cawing of ravens and crows, but the wondrously refreshing and
hopeful warbling of songbirds. Wolfgart hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the
birds until now. The sky was a shimmering canopy of blue, the clouds scattered
and white.

It was the perfect day but for the tension in Sigmar’s body.

“They are Freya’s sons, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And I am their father,” stated Sigmar.

Wolfgart nodded, though there was no need. It hadn’t been a question.

“You knew about them, didn’t you?” said Sigmar.

Wolfgart knew there was no need or good to be served by lying. “I did, but
Maedbh swore me to silence.”

“And you don’t break an oath to an Asoborn woman,” said Sigmar.

“Not if you want to keep your manhood intact,” agreed Wolfgart, knowing he
had let Maedbh down once already with his oaths.

“I understand why she wouldn’t want me to know,” said Sigmar. “Freya’s not
the family type. Not for her a husband and a doting father.”

“No,” agreed Wolfgart. “She’s not really cut out to be the faithful wife
either.”

“But they are my sons,” said Sigmar, finally turning to face Wolfgart. “I had
a right to know them, to watch them grow up and become men! They are the sons I
never had with Ravenna. Who will carry on my name when I’m dead, Wolfgart? Who?”

“There’s still time, my friend,” said Wolfgart. “You’re not too old to sire
sons, and there’s plenty of strong women who’d be proud to bear them.”

Sigmar shook his head and knelt beside the riverbank, plucking a flat stone
with a smooth face from the earth. He skimmed it across the water, watching as
it skipped over the surface a number of times before sinking.

“I remember doing this as a child, and it still makes me smile.”

Wolfgart picked up a similar stone and skipped it across the water. His throw
was better and made it farther across the river before sinking.

“You always were lousy at this,” said Wolfgart, stooping to pick up another
stone. “It’s all in the wrist you see. Here, like this.”

Once again the stone skipped across the river, but Sigmar shook his head.

“I am who I am, Wolfgart, and it’s too late for me to change. Ravenna was my
love, and I swore that there would be no other.”

“You can change that, Sigmar,” said Wolfgart. “You can get to know those
boys. They’re good lads, strong and brave, reckless and full of the same fire
that drove you to build the Empire. Who knows what they might do with you as
their father to guide them?”

“I wish it could be that easy, my friend,” replied Sigmar, “but I am on a
path that does not allow change. Others have that luxury, but I do not. The
Empire needs me as I am, a warrior Emperor.”

“And what about what
you
need? Love, companionship, family?”

“I cannot be the man this land needs if I am drawn to hearth and home,” said
Sigmar, looking over his shoulder to the Asoborns as they prepared to march west
to Reikdorf. Freya’s boys and Ulrike gathered around Maedbh, like chicks around
a mother hen.

“Those boys don’t need me, they’re Asoborns,” said Sigmar. “Their mother
would never allow me to take them from her. That’s what she fears, that I’ll
take them to Reikdorf and make them my heirs.”

“You should,” said Wolfgart. “They
are
your sons after all. Doesn’t
the Empire need heirs, strong rulers to carry your name into the future? You
said so yourself.”

Sigmar turned to look out over the landscape, and Wolfgart saw the beginnings
of a smile crack his features.

“Aye, the Empire needs heirs,” said Sigmar, slapping a hand on Wolfgart’s
shoulder and walking him back to the column of people. “And you are all my
heirs. Everyone who lives in this land is my heir. Everyone who fights and
bleeds to protect the Empire…”

The Emperor smiled. “They will all be Sigmar’s heirs.”

The dead attacked Marburg again and again, clawing at the walls with thin
fingers of bone digging into the stonework to pull themselves up. The entire
lower town thronged with rotten corpses, shambling cadavers and skeletal
warriors, and all of them threw themselves at the walls of the citadel every
night. Marius and his lancers held the shorter stretch of wall between the main
gate and the eastern shore, while Aldred held the western stretch of the walls
and the barbican towers.

Marius swept his sword through the neck of a moaning corpse with green fire
in its eyes, kicking the rotting body back down the walls. His sword was proving
to be anathema to the dead, and he silently thanked the eastern king who had
gifted it to him so long ago. It had saved his life in Middenheim, and was
saving him again now. His lancers fought at his side, pushing the dead from the
walls, stabbing them with spears, hacking at them with axes and bludgeoning them
with heavy maces.