GODS OF FLESH AND BLOOD
Graham McNeill

 
Snow clung to the winding path, making the rock slick and treacherous, but the dwarf rangers marched with sure strides that could easily outpace the six riders following them. Seven of the mountain folk, each clad in dulled mail and tight-wrapped cloaks of dappled grey and brown, led the way along the steep-sided gully as it snaked deeper into the towering cliffs of the Grey Mountains.
The rangers were heavily bearded, and what little of their skin was visible was nut-brown and gnarled like weath¬ered bark. They carried heavy wooden crossbows over their shoulders, and a slender-hafted axe was strapped to each warrior's thigh.
Sigmar rode at the head of the horsemen, weary and saddle sore, but grateful to have met these pathfinders. His horse tossed its mane, and Sigmar patted its sweat-lathered flanks. Taalhorsa was near the end of his endurance, for he not only bore Sigmar's weight, but that of the Norsii warlock, Bransuil.
The raven-cloaked warlock had said little on the ride from Glacier Lake, for his every word was treated with suspicion and hostility. As a man of the northern tribes that Sigmar had driven from the Empire, he was not to be trusted, and his unearthly powers only made it easier to despise him.
'Was it wise to keep to the mountains?' asked Bransuil, his tone laced with implied criticism.
'No one understands stone like dwarfs, but Alaric says that these rangers know these peaks and their secret paths better than anyone,' replied Sigmar.
'But where do those paths lead, friend Sigmar? Many paths are secret, and some are secret to protect the unwary from walking into danger.'
Sigmar said nothing, but Bransuil's words lodged like a splinter.
He put the misshapen warlock's warning from his thoughts and looked over his shoulder at the few warriors who rode with him back to Reikdorf. Cuthwin and Wenyld swayed wearily in their saddles, with arms dangling limply in their laps. Leodan grimaced with every stumbled step his exhausted horse took, and the rags covering the deep slash in his chest were stained red with blood.
Teon rode alongside Gorseth, his wounded friend lashed to a cross of lance hafts tied to the saddle of his horse. The lad had taken a fearful blow from the axe of a living dead champion of the Dark Gods, and the wound was beyond their skill to treat.
Marching just ahead of Sigmar, Alaric of Karaz-a-Karak led a solemn group of armoured dwarfs in strict order. Though there was little obvious to distinguish his dwarfs from the rangers, Sigmar sensed a hierarchy at work that he did not understand. Though Alaric was clearly much older than these rangers, a fact that - as far as Sigmar's understanding of dwarf culture went - should have accorded him great respect, the runesmith had deferred to the leader of the rangers, and consented to be guided.
Seven nights had passed since their defeat of Krell, and the journey home was, if anything, proving to be even harder than the hunt. Food was running low and though there was a plentiful supply of fresh snow to drink, only Cuthwin had a bow and even he was struggling to catch enough wild creatures to feed them all. Bransuil had used his powers to bring down a mountain stag, but no one was prepared to eat the flesh of a beast slain in such a fashion.
'Ulric's bones, how much farther is it?' asked Wenyld for what felt like the hundredth time since the sun had passed its zenith. 'I thought these dwarfs knew a short cut.'
'These dwarfs know the mountain paths better than you know your own manhood,' said Alaric with a gruff bark of annoyance. 'So curb your whingeing. The entrance to a dwarf hold is a secret thing not meant for manling eyes. The road to Karak Izor is no exception.'
'This is a road?' said Wenyld. 'I've seen better tracks through the swamps of Marburg.'
'Hold your tongue, Wenyld,' ordered Sigmar.
'Perhaps the manling would be happier making his own way home?' asked the lead ranger, without looking back. Though he had not raised his voice above a whisper, every one of the riders could hear his voice perfectly. This was the first time he had deigned to speak in the language of men since they had met him four days ago.
'Do not shame me, boy,' hissed Alaric, and Sigmar saw the runesmith's anger in the clicking flexing of his metallic hand. 'These are Stromhelm's rangers, and I'll not have it said that manlings I have vouched for have the manners of greenskins.'
Wenyld's back stiffened and Sigmar saw he understood the seriousness of Alaric's words.
'Apologies, Master Alaric,' said Wenyld. 'I am weary and did not think before speaking.'
'Aye, well you manlings seldom do,' said Alaric. 'It's what brings you such woe.'
The riders and dwarfs passed another hour in silence, and the path through the mountain gradually widened until the hard-packed earth beneath the horses' iron-shod hooves became rune-stamped flagstones. Sigmar saw a pair of towering statues ahead, dwarf warriors in full battledress, with axes held out to the side forming an archway beneath which they would soon ride.
The rangers passed under the archway, and Sigmar reined in his horse, allowing Leodan, Cuthwin and Wenyld to ride ahead. Teon drew alongside him, and Sigmar's heart sank to his boots anew at the sight of the grievous wound in Gorseth's shoulder. The lad's skin was ashen, glistening with sweat despite the icy air this high in the mountains. His saddle was sticky with blood.
'I fear he won't live to see Reikdorf, sire,' said Teon, wiping away the tears streaking his young cheeks.
'He's a strong one, lad,' said Sigmar. 'He's made it this far, he can make it a little longer.'
Teon looked at the rearing statues, as though seeing them for the first time.
'And they can heal him here?' asked Teon, suddenly look¬ing very young to Sigmar's eyes.
Sigmar did not want to lie to Teon, but nor did he wish to crush what little hope he had left, and said, 'The mountain folk are masters of many things, and I do not believe they will be any less skilled in the healing arts.'
The anguish in Teon's face transformed into boyish excite¬ment, and he placed a light hand on his friend's shoulder.
'You hear that, Gor?' he said. 'We're at an actual dwarf hold in the mountains, can you believe it?'
Sigmar led them through the archway onto a wide road that followed an arrow-straight course towards a mighty portal of seasoned timbers and age-blackened iron set into the flank of the mountain. Great images of helmed warrior gods were carved into the wood, and squat drum towers with ramparts that glittered with axe blades flanked the enormous gateway. The sun was setting behind the great peak, bathing the rocks in a ruddy copper hue.
The rangers were already halfway towards the gate, with Alaric's dwarfs eagerly following behind. Sigmar's riders awaited his arrival, and he saw their relief that they had finally reached a place of safety after so long in hostile terrain.
'So this is a dwarf hold?' said Leodan. 'Doesn't look very inviting.'
'Hold your tongue,' said Sigmar, though he also sensed the unwelcome air that hung over the mountains. This was a place where outsiders were normally met with hails of crossbow bolts and dwarf blades. Alaric had vouched for them, and the honour in which the runesmith was held was the only reason they had been allowed this far.
How long that goodwill lasted would be entirely depend¬ent on their actions here.
'We are guests here,' said Sigmar, with all the authority that had made him Emperor. 'Master Alaric has given his oath that we are men of honour, so none of you are to act out of turn or you'll have me to answer to.'
His warriors nodded, but Sigmar wasn't done.
'Understand this,' he said. 'We are not in the lands of men now, and if any of us gives the mountain folk offence, none of us will live to see our homes again. Do you understand? I want your oaths.'
Each man nodded solemnly, even the warlock riding with Sigmar.
Satisfied, Sigmar rode for the gates of Karak Izor.
'And here was I thinking fighting Krell would be the dan¬gerous part of this hunt,' said Leodan.

The interior of the dwarf hold was no less impressive than the colossal gates that afforded entry to the subterranean fortress. A vast entrance hall, fortified more stoutly than the soaring crag of Middenheim, was filled with warriors, five hundred at least, all clad in shimmering hauberks of scaled iron and overlapping plates that shone too brightly to be anything other than gromril, the legendary metal of the dwarfs.
A vaulted roof of shimmering gemstones and gold arched above the riders, and each coffered panel glittered like star¬light. Vast columns of carved stone, at least fifteen paces in diameter, soared to the roof, marching off into the distance in serried ranks. The scale of the entrance took Sigmar's breath away. Great fire bowls hanging on enormous chains suspended from the roof bathed the great entrance in a flickering, warm light, and Sigmar took comfort in the smell of hard rock and deep earth.
A stout dwarf in a red cloak and ornately fashioned mail that glittered like snowfall in the dawn was borne upon a shield carried on the shoulders of four masked warriors. His braided hair and be-ringed beard were red like molten copper, his features no less so, and he carried a foaming tankard of beer that reeked of mature hops. A heavy ham¬mer was carried alongside him by a warrior to his right, while another to his left hefted a heavy barrel of ale on one shoulder.
Sigmar dismounted and nodded to his warriors to do the same. Teon, Cuthwin and Wenyld released Gorseth from the lance hafts tied to his saddle and laid him out on the mosaic floor, a great circle of copper in which were ren-dered swathes of runic text. Gorseth groaned in delirious pain, but that at least was a sign he still lived.
The dwarf on the shield belched loudly and Sigmar stepped to meet him as the regimented lines of dwarf war¬riors folded around him like the jaws of a closing spring trap. Their movement was so precise, so coordinated, that it eerily reminded Sigmar of the perfect unison of the dead legions of the necromancer. Not the shambling, rotting grave-fiends, but the armoured warriors of undeath, the black riders and the dreadful liche-lords of the dead.
The red-bearded dwarf looked Sigmar up and down, then took another mouthful of beer. It foamed on his lips and soaked his beard. He did not look impressed with what he was seeing.
'So who is this you bring to my hold, Master Alaric?' said the dwarf. 'A manling? No wonder they call you mad.'
Alaric stepped forward and bowed to the elevated dwarf.
'Thane Egril Barazul,' said Alaric. 'It is my honour to present to you Sigmar Heldenhammer, Emperor of the lands of men. He is oath-sworn to King Kurgan of Karaz-a-Karak, and though he is but a manling, he understands the value of such things. His treasure halls are rich in gold, his grain stores are well stocked and his people are courageous.'
'An emperor, eh?' said Thane Barazul. 'A big title.'
'Well earned,' said Alaric.
'So you say.'
'I do.'
Barazul wiped beer from his beard and his already gimlet eyes narrowed further as he studied Sigmar. As the thane's eyes bored into him, Sigmar held his head high, deter¬mined not to be bowed before this dwarf.
'I think I've heard of you,' said Barazul. 'Are you the manling who joined King Kurgan at the pass north of Karak Angazhar?'
'I am,' said Sigmar. 'The warriors of King Kurgan fought alongside my army and we defeated a host of greenskins that would have overrun the world.'
Barazul grunted and Alaric nudged Sigmar in the ribs.
'Show him the hammer,' whispered Alaric.
Sigmar reached for Ghal-maraz and five hundred dwarfs each reached for their weapons. Hundreds of axes were sud¬denly bared and the fires reflected ruddy light from every blade.
'Careful now,' warned Barazul. 'It's a foolish individual who dares to draw a weapon before the Thane of Karak Izor. Nice and slow, manling. Let's see what you've got.'
With deliberate slowness, Sigmar unhooked the ancient rune hammer and held it out before him. Where the keen edges of the dwarf axes shimmered in the glow of the fire bowls, Ghal-maraz held fast to the flames until it seemed it was ablaze with captured starlight. Sigmar felt the warmth of the runic magic bound to its metal, and a powerful sen¬sation of homecoming swelled in his breast. Every eye in the entrance hall was locked to the warhammer.
Barazul nodded towards Alaric. 'One of your creations, I'm guessing.'
'It is,' replied Alaric.
'And King Kurgan just gave it away?'
'He did, and he did so gladly,' said Alaric. 'Sigmar saved King Kurgan from greenskin slavers while only a youngling. The gift of Ghal-maraz sealed their oath of brotherhood and stands as a symbol of the unity and warrior brother-hood that exist between our people.'
Barazul nodded, understanding full well the import of Alaric's words. To dishonour an oath of the High King, even one made to a manling, would be to bring shame upon his hold, and Thane Barazul wasn't about to make such a poor error of judgement.
But Sigmar saw that didn't mean he had to like it.
'Very well, I give you leave to enter the halls of Karak Izor,' said Barazul. 'Now tell me why you have come to my hold, Emperor Sigmar.'

Gorseth lay on a pallet bed that was about a foot too small for him, stripped to the waist, while dwarf maids in long dresses cleaned his bloodied chest with mountain spring water. The boy's colour was terrible, and that he still clung to life was a miracle. Teon sat by his bed on a stool, while Leo¬dan, Wenyld and Cuthwin tore into fresh-roasted shanks of meat and bread laid out on copper platters. Bransuil loitered at the wounded boy's bedside, as though relish¬ing the chance to watch a mortal soul pass into the next world. Alaric and his dwarfs were quartered in an adjoining series of chambers, and had, thus far, kept themselves to themselves.
After telling Barazul of their climb into the Vaults, the battle to destroy Krell and Gorseth's subsequent wounding at the hands of the dread champion, Sigmar saw a lessening of the casual hostility in the thane's manner. Krell's damned name was well known to the mountain folk, with countless grudges against him. For a manling to have settled those grudges was no small matter, and Thane Barazul knew it.
Barazul had nodded to a pale figure standing unnoticed in the shadows behind him, a dwarf of such advanced years that it seemed he was entirely composed of streaked grey hair and wrinkles. The venerable dwarf was introduced as Gromthi Okri, though Sigmar couldn't be sure if that was a name or a title. Alaric had given the dwarf a deep bow of respect, a deeper one than the thane had received, so the dwarf was clearly not some doddering old fool assigned to them as a veiled insult. His skin was pale to the point of translucence, and Sigmar wondered how many centuries the old dwarf had behind him.
Gromthi Okri had led Sigmar's men through high-roofed chambers adorned with gold and copper towards a net¬work of linked apartments decorated with precious metals and brightly coloured glass. He had spoken of each hall's ornamentation and history in slow, courteous tones, like a kindly grandfather taking a leisurely stroll with a gaggle of children in his wake. He told of the hold's deep mines, its honourable history in war and the thane's great wealth with paternal pride. His tale-telling made it sound as though he had been part of the household since its first tower had been raised.
With the hold's guests accommodated, food and beer had been brought, and Okri began his examination. He stud¬ied Gorseth's dreadful injury through a number of whirring and clicking eyeglasses attached to a headpiece of red-gold metal that hissed with venting steam and clacked with ratcheting clockwork mechanisms.
The ancient dwarf worked in silence for some time, before bending to sniff Gorseth's wound. He leaned closer and sniffed again.
'Most curious,' he said at last.
'What is?' asked Sigmar.
'The smell.'
'What smell?'
'Exactly!' said Okri, dipping a glass rod filled with col¬oured liquid into the wound. Gorseth groaned and a cold breath sighed from his lips.
'I do not understand,' said Sigmar. 'I smell nothing.'
'But you should,' said Okri with a serene expression on his face. 'This wound has festered for seven days beneath unclean bandages. It should be rotten and black, and the boy burning with fever. But his skin is cold. Icy even.'
'What does that mean?' asked Teon.
'It means that I cannot save him,' said Okri. 'No one can.'
'No!' cried Teon. 'Surely the wound being clean is a good thing?'
Okri smiled indulgently. 'In most cases I would agree with you. The boy would be dead already, but for the dark magic clinging to his spirit.'
'Krell's axe,' said Bransuil, leaning in to look at the wound. His rustling cloak of black feathers put Sigmar in mind of a carrion bird circling its prey. 'Its blade was forged in the Northern Wastes on the edge of the world, where the winds surge with the breath of the gods themselves.'
'You are a man who knows of such things?' said Okri.
'I have some art, aye,' agreed Bransuil.
'Art you call it?' said Okri with a rueful shake of his head. 'Long have I held that men should not dabble with things they do not understand.'
'I understand power, old one,' said Bransuil.
'If you truly understood the power you wield, you would foreswear it utterly,' said Okri.
'Enough,' said Sigmar as he saw Bransuil's crooked grin. 'If Krell's axe is so dangerous, why is Gorseth still alive?'
The lenses on Okri's headpiece clicked and spun around on tiny toothed wheels, rising up like the visor of a battle-helm.
'Because Death has claimed him.'
'He's dead?' exclaimed Teon.
'Not yet, but when his body fails, as it most assuredly will, his spirit will be claimed by the dead things. He will wander the Grey Vaults as a shade for all eternity.'
'The Grey Vaults...' hissed Sigmar.
'You have heard of them?'
Sigmar nodded. 'I've been there,' he said. 'I was lost there as a youth.'
'And yet you live. Curious. How did you return to the world of the living?'
'My father brought me back.'
'Then he must be a very great warrior,' said Okri.
'He was.'
'Ah, yes. I forget how swiftly your kind pass through life. It must be very exciting,' said Okri, removing a twisting pipe with a bowl carved in the shape of a dragon's head. As he filled the bowl with a reeking tobacco, he nodded towards Gorseth. The boy's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and Sigmar knew his life hung by the slenderest of threads.
Okri lit his pipe and said, 'If you have walked the waste¬lands of the Grey Vaults, Sigmar Heldenhammer, then you understand the doom awaiting this youngling.'
The ancient dwarf turned and placed a hand on Teon's shoulder.
'I grieve for your loss, manling, but when your friend's spirit passes, you must burn the body and scatter the ashes to the four winds. It is the only way to keep him from returning as a revenant.'
'What? No!' protested Teon.
Leodan, Cuthwin and Wenyld joined Sigmar as he knelt beside the dying boy.
'You saved my live, Gorseth, son of Gothen,' said Sigmar. 'I shall see that you are honoured and remembered.'
Bransuil knelt beside Sigmar, his twisted frame making the movement awkward and jerky.
'It does not have to be like this, my lord,' said the war¬lock. 'You can save him.'
'No,' said Okri, firmly. 'He cannot.'
'He can, and you know he can,' snapped Bransuil. 'You could do it too, but you choose not to. I can help bring this boy back, you know I can.'
Okri sighed and addressed Sigmar. 'This boy will die. Nothing now can prevent that.'
'He's wrong,' said Bransuil, gripping Sigmar's wrist with a strength that belied his wizened frame. 'I can send your spirit to the Grey Vaults. As your father did for you as a youth, you can do for this boy. You can bring his spirit back to his body.'
'That would be a fool's errand,' warned Okri. 'You would lose two souls instead of one.'
'You could do that?' asked Sigmar, ignoring Okri's words.
Bransuil nodded. 'Aye, Lord Sigmar, I could.'
'My lord, no!' cried Cuthwin.
'And you can bring me back?' said Sigmar.
'I believe so.'
'You believe so?'
Bransuil shrugged and grinned, exposing his gleaming white teeth. 'Such things are ever fraught with uncertain¬ties, but you have a strong soul and will not be hard to locate. It is the best I can offer you.'
'Sire, this is madness,' said Leodan. 'You can't trust this man, he's Norsii!'
'Leodan's right, my lord,' added Wenyld. 'I'm all for try¬ing to save the lad, he was a brave one, but he's as good as gone.'
Sigmar stood and hauled Bransuil to his feet alongside him.
'You say you can send me to the Grey Vaults,' said Sigmar. 'Then do it.'

Sigmar lay on the floor next to Gorseth's bed, Ghal-maraz clutched tight to his chest as Bransuil knelt at his head and placed thin, willowy fingers on each of his eyes. Leodan stood behind the warlock, his hunting knife bared. Cuth¬win and Wenyld had blades drawn, while Teon held tight to Gorseth's hand.
'Are you ready?' asked Bransuil.
'No, but do what you must before I lose my nerve,' said Sigmar, the fear of what he might find in the Grey Vaults making his heart hammer against his chest. He had been little more than a boy when he had last walked its ashen wastelands, but the horror of those memories was still as dreadful.
'Come back to us, my lord,' said Wenyld.
'I plan to,' said Sigmar.
Leodan tapped his blade against Bransuil's shoulder and said, 'Know that if this wretch has treachery in mind, I'll open his neck before he can blink. If you die, he will serve you on the road to Ulric's halls.'
'Your faith in me is heart-warming,' snapped Bransuil. 'Now let me work.'
Sigmar controlled his breathing with effort, feeling a chill settle in his bones. The Norsii warlock began a low, guttural chant of words that were not words, more like the racking coughs of a man dying of lung-blight. With each utterance, icy cold seeped into Sigmar's flesh, and he let out a frost-limned breath as he felt his body go numb.
The sharp outlines of the richly appointed chambers faded as a cold mist arose and the hazy contours of a far distant landscape swam into view. Sigmar's spirit rebelled at the sight of such a bleak, empty domain, fighting to remain within his body rather than be transported to so awful a place.
'Do not fight it,' said Bransuil's voice, a lifeline to the world of warmth and hot blood. Sigmar wanted to cling to his voice, to let it guide him home, but he had come here with purpose and he could not shirk that duty. A boy with a warrior's heart was trapped in the space between life and death, and only Sigmar could save him.
He stopped fighting the pull of his body and let his spirit flow from him into the Grey Vaults. Cold swept through him and he gasped as the connection between flesh and spirit was broken.
Sigmar cried out and opened his eyes in the nightmarish netherworld of the damned.

Everything was just as he remembered it: the lifeless hin¬terlands of desolate ash, the bleak grey sky that had never known the sun, and clawed trees of black cinders that scraped the air as the frozen winds of the shade-haunted plains howled through their gnarled branches. Black mountains rose in the distance, and Sigmar knew that no matter how fast or long he walked, they would come no closer. Time was meaningless in this place. Day and night were non-existent, and every moment was as hopeless as the next. Here and there, lonely figures wandered the waste¬lands, anguished souls condemned to walk in limbo for all eternity, for crimes real or imagined.
Sigmar was naked, but with a thought he was clad in his dwarf-forged battle armour and helm. He carried Ghal-maraz, and the frost-white glow of its runic powers was a beacon of light in this eternal twilight. In a place where nothing ever changed, his appearance was sure to attract all manner of monstrous attention. Already he could see black wraith-wolves slinking from the shadows of the black trees, and moaning spectres were gathering on the ash plains as they sensed his powerful presence.
'Gorseth!' yelled Sigmar. 'Gorseth, son of Gothen! Come to me! Your Emperor commands you to stand at his side!'
His voice did not echo, nor did it carry over the dead landscape, but his call was answered by a plaintive cry of desolation from the black forest before him. A hundred eyes of cold light glittered between the tangled trunks, and Sigmar knew Gorseth's spirit was being held within that lightless copse.
'I am Emperor Sigmar Heldenhammer!' he bellowed, but the howling winds swallowed his words, mocking his ego and delusions of immortality. Anger touched Sigmar, and he set off towards the forest with Ghal-maraz looping around in killing sweeps. Puffs of ash blew up around him, and he felt the hunger of the shades that stalked him.
Sigmar entered the forest and the bleak light of the dead sky was snuffed out as the black canopy of trees closed in overhead. Everything was gloom, and the only light came from Sigmar's hammer. Midnight-black trees loomed from the darkness, whipping branches clawing at his body as he pushed deeper and deeper into the forest. Moaning shades swirled around him and Sigmar swept his warhammer out as immaterial claws slashed for his warmth.
Ghostly revenants vanished at the touch of Ghal-maraz, and as each one was destroyed it loosed a shriek of plaintive horror. Sigmar forged a path onwards, swinging his ham¬mer at the creatures of darkness as he charged through the haunted forest. Wraith-wolves howled and snapped at his heels, but Sigmar was too fleet for them. He ran with the speed of Ulric's wolves, fighting and running as he aimed his course for the bleak heart of the forest. Claws tore at his armour and spectral fangs ripped plates from his body.
Scores died to the touch of Ghal-maraz, but he could not see or fight them all. Icy fangs bit his arms and soul-sapping talons raked his chest. None of these wounds bled, but each sapped his spirit, making it ever more difficult to keep mov¬ing and fighting.
'Gorseth, come to my side, your Emperor commands it!' he shouted. 'Damn it, boy, fight! Fight with me!'
His imperious demand was met with a battle shout that could only have come from the throat of an Unberogen warrior. A light flared in the darkness, and Sigmar saw Gor¬seth surrounded by a host of shadow-black spectres who held him fast in their claws of ice. The boy's spirit was being drained by these horrors of the dead, but he was fighting them.
'To me!' yelled Sigmar. 'Your sword, boy, think of your sword!'
A gleaming sword of silver appeared in the boy's hand and he plunged the blade into the shades holding him. They screeched in terror as they vanished, and Gorseth fought his way clear of the others as a shimmering dagger appeared in his other hand.
'Where is this?' cried Gorseth as he staggered over to Sigmar.
'It is a place of hopelessness and death,' said Sigmar as a host of darting shades and wraith-wolves attacked. 'Now fight!'
The noose of dead things closed on the two of them, howling wolves circling as the spectral soul-stealers swirled around them. Sigmar and Gorseth fought back to back, silver sword and rune hammer slashing, bludgeoning and killing with every stroke. It was a bloodless battle, for each wraith-creature struck simply vanished and their own wounds were of the soul. Hundreds of the monsters sur¬rounded them, and Sigmar knew they could not hope to survive this fight.
It had been foolish to come here, but honour would not allow him to abandon a warrior who had given his own life to save his. The last time he had come to the Grey Vaults, he had his father and an army of Unberogen at his back. How arrogant to assume he could save Gorseth on his own!
The boy cried out as a pair of wraith-wolves bore him to the ground, their gleaming fangs tearing for his throat. Sigmar threw himself at the wolves, but a taloned hand plunged into his chest and Ghal-maraz fell from his grasp as his last reserve of strength was harvested. Gorseth held out his hand, but Sigmar couldn't reach it. He fell to his knees as their spectral attackers closed in, knowing that he was now condemned to walk the Grey Vaults as one of them.
A wraith-wolf reared over Sigmar, fangs bared to swallow his spirit, but before it could end him, a shimmering axe blade of the purest silver light clove through its black body. The axe swept out, faster than Sigmar would have believed possible, and its light was blinding. The shade creatures fell away from its dazzling radiance, and those that had been driven to frenzy by their insatiable hunger for the living were cut down like grain stalks. Sigmar saw a powerfully built dwarf clad in armour that shone as brightly as his axe, and a vivid red cloak with golden runes worked into its every warp and weft. A horned helm of ancient design sat upon a troubled brow, and his lustrous beard was a bril¬liant white, pure as the first snows of winter.
He slew with calm, economical strokes of his incredible axe, hewing the dead things with contemptuous ease. His white beard swung about him as his axe wove a killing dance among the shades, and the forest was bathed in its light. The shadows fled from the blinding fury of its power, and black trees crumbled like ashes in the wind until Sig¬mar saw the entire forest had been levelled by the power of the light pouring out of the weapon.
The dwarf walked a slow circuit around them, as though making sure that none of the dead things remained. He grunted and turned to face Sigmar. The dwarfs stern eyes glittered with the coldest blue light, and Sigmar felt the awesome power he represented.
The dwarf sheathed his axe over his shoulder and bent to retrieve Sigmar's fallen weapon.
'You dropped your warhammer,' said the dwarf. 'That was careless of you.'
He turned Ghal-maraz over in his hands, nodding appre¬ciatively at the craftsmanship of its forging. His gauntleted fingers traced the runes on the killing face. They shone brightly at his touch, as though greeting an old friend.
'Good to see that some standards are being maintained,' grunted the dwarf, holding the weapon out to Sigmar.
'Alaric will be happy to hear that.'
'That he will,' agreed the dwarf. 'Always was a proud one.'
Sigmar gratefully took back his hammer, feeling the awe¬some strength bound to the warrior's very bones as he was hauled to his feet.
'You saved our lives,' he said, as Gorseth appeared at his side. 'We are eternally grateful.'
The dwarf shrugged off his thanks and said, 'The wraiths might have fled for now, but they'll be back. They won't be able to help themselves. And you don't have the strength to fight them again. Even with that fancy hammer.'
Sigmar squared his shoulders. 'We'll fight,' he said.
'No,' said the dwarf. 'You won't. You're going back to the world of flesh and blood. You still have things to do, and there's no use in you getting stuck here.'
'I owe you a life-debt,' said Sigmar.
'And you'll repay it before your time's done,' said the dwarf.
'I'm not leaving you here on your own.'
'You're not,' said the dwarf sadly. 'The boy is staying with me.'
Sigmar turned to face Gorseth, dismayed to see that his body was becoming as insubstantial as mist, as ghostly as the creatures they had fought moments before.
'No!' cried Sigmar. 'Not now, not like this!'
Gorseth ignored him, as though he hadn't even heard him, and Sigmar knew no words of his could reach him now.
'His body's dead, but his spirit's strong,' said the dwarf, as the shade-wraiths gathered at the edge of the light pour¬ing from the dwarfs white beard and glimmering axe. 'I'll make sure he gets where he needs to go. You have my word on that.'
Sigmar felt a tugging pull at his spirit as the dwarf spoke, the irresistible claim of flesh upon spirit. He knew he could not fight it, and he let the growing sound of Bransuil's voice guide him out of this place of darkness and torment. The barren plains of the Grey Vaults diminished like a forgotten nightmare, leaving only a lingering touch of ice in his heart.
'Wait!' cried Sigmar as the shades closed in once again. 'I don't even know your name.'
'You will, Sigmar Heldenhammer,' said the white dwarf. 'You will...'