[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  The hooded figure shook its head. As it ushered him into the room there was a note of amusement in its voice. “No.”

  As the baron’s eyes adjusted to the flickering light, he saw the room a little more clearly. It was an absurdly grand throne room. Tiered, scalloped balconies lined its walls and ranks of fluted columns divided it into a series of arcades. The walls and ceilings were made of polished white marble, crowned with elaborate, golden cornices and between each of the columns hung crystal chandeliers each the size of a stagecoach and shimmering with hundreds of candles. The flames pulsated with a multitude of different colours, washing over the ranks of spinning figures and revealing the strangeness of their costumes: towering masks of plumed feathers and wings of scarlet silk, all trailing through the smoke in perfect synchronicity. Above them, the balconies were filled with crowds of musicians, playing instruments of such strange design that they looked more like elongated limbs than pieces of brass or wood. As the baron stared at the incredible scene, he realised that not all of the lights were fixed in one place: dozens of birds were flitting around the room, swooping and diving in frenetic bursts, and trailing tiny lanterns from their tail feathers.

  Beyond the dancers, there was a raised dais and a throne. The room was so long and the smoke so thick that the baron struggled to make out the throne in any detail, but as the lights ebbed and throbbed, he saw that the chair cradled a slender figure, slumped idly in its deep cushions. He felt a thrill of excitement. This must be his host. Even with their faces hidden behind their masks, it was clear the dancers’ gaudy display was intended for the amusement of this one person.

  “Whose palace is…?” began the baron, but as he looked back, he saw that the hooded figure had disappeared. He scanned the crowds and saw its swaying shoulders a few yards away, stumbling in and out of the dancers. He moved to follow, but it vanished behind a wall of smoke and whirling silk. He shrugged and looked back at the distant throne. It was obvious whose palace this was.

  Drawing himself erect, he strode confidently down the central arcade. As soon as he neared the other guests, he faltered. He felt as though he had entered a hall of mirrors. The figures’ costumes were even stranger when seen close up: bestial masks leered down at him and serpentine limbs sprouted from beneath bodices and cloaks. He began to doubt if all of the strange shapes were even costumes at all, they seemed so horribly animated. But it was the size of the figures that finally brought him to a confused halt. Some of the dancers towered over him, like willows, while others scampered beneath his legs. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands over them, trying to block out the torrent of warped faces and impossible shapes. Awful realisation washed over him in a dizzy rush. “How can they exist?” he groaned.

  As he stood there, trembling with delayed shock, the baron felt something shift, irrevocably, in his mind. He shook his head and hurried on, trying to fix his eyes on the throne. As he rushed through the dance, delicate fingers brushed against his face and breathy, foreign voices whispered in his ears: urging him to join the writhing crush of bodies. An intoxicating mixture of terror and arousal gripped him and he broke into a sprint.

  With a sigh of relief, he reached the broad dais and stepped away from the dancers. A cerise carpet led up to the tall, baroque throne and, at its feet, a group of lithe, semi-clad figures were slumped in languid adoration of their monarch. The light here was a little clearer but the baron frowned, doubting his eyes. The figures that turned towards him had eyes as black as coal and flesh the colour of virgin snow. Their beautiful, elfin faces were full of mischief as they rose to greet him, with forked tongues flickering from their pouting lips. To his shame, the baron found himself smiling coyly as they pressed around him. He could not even be sure if they were male or female, but as their long, elegant limbs entwined him, he felt a fierce rush of lust. Gentle fingers traced over his blistered skin and the baron closed his eyes with a moan of pleasure. After months of brutal war, his body yielded gratefully to their tender embrace. Soft, moist lips brushed against his ears and warm, voluptuous bodies pressed against his hands.

  The baron was finally defeated.

  His legs gave way and he collapsed gratefully into a forest of welcoming arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “There will be time for introductions later,” said a soft voice.

  At the sound of his own language, the baron felt a stab of guilt. He opened his eyes to see that he was still in the grand throne room. Then, with a gasp, he saw that his pale-skinned seducers were writhing over his body and eagerly unfastening his clothes. Their black eyes were rolling with excitement as their fingers pulled open his jerkin and slid across his exposed chest. He cried out in a mixture of ecstasy and alarm, suddenly realising how unnatural their beauty was. Some of their limbs ended in long serrated claws, and several of them had tails snaking down from their gyrating hips. He sat up with a groan of fear, shoving them away and looking around to see who had spoken. He saw a face utterly different from the ones nuzzling and mewling against his skin.

  “You should meet your host before you sample his gifts,” said the man looming over him. His eyes were as hard as flint and his face was a mask of intricately scarred flesh. He reached under the baron and wrenched him away from the writhing nymphs.

  The baron coughed with embarrassment and quickly fastened his jerkin. He felt colour rushing into his cheeks as he stood before a tall, stern-faced man. “I… I’ve travelled far,” he stammered, trying to ignore the pale fingers sliding up his legs. “I’m so tired. I just…”

  The man nodded.

  As he pulled himself free from the pile of bodies, the baron studied his saviour. He was dressed like a knight, or a noble of some kind. His broad, powerful chest was encased in a plum-coloured cuirass of a strange, antiquated design and he carried an ornate helmet under his arm, designed to resemble the head of a serpent. His age was hard to determine, but the baron decided he must be at least fifty: he was tall and straight-backed and he had lifted the baron as easily as a child, but his oil-slicked hair was thinning and grey. His mouth was locked in a permanent sneer, twisted up by a thick worm of scar tissue.

  “Are you from the Empire?” asked the baron, backing away from the knight’s fierce glare.

  The knight frowned, as though annoyed by the question. Then he locked the baron’s arm in a tight grip. “Let me introduce you,” he said, speaking with a low, velvety voice that did not seem quite at home coming from such a cruel face.

  He ushered the baron towards the throne and knelt down, indicating that the baron should do the same.

  As the knight dropped to his knees, Schüler noticed that his purple cuirass was attached to his body by a collection of polished hooks, all of which were embedded deep in his flesh. As he leant forward, they tugged at his skin in a way that must have caused the man incredible pain and the baron grimaced in sympathy for his taut, mutilated skin.

  “Sigvald, Lord of the Decadent Host,” the strange knight intoned, after briefly pressing his forehead into the deep carpet. “Your guest has arrived.”

  The baron pressed his own forehead into the carpet and then stared at the figure slumped on the throne. It was a boy with the face of a god. He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, and his posture was as slouched and nonchalant as that of any other teenager, but his face was divine in its perfection. The baron recognised him immediately from the statues and paintings. He had long blond hair and a handsome, strong face with piercing blue eyes and a cruel, sensual mouth. The youth’s muscular body was clad in ornately sculpted gold armour. It was filigreed and engraved with an intricate mass of whorls and arabesques and it was designed in such a cunning way that he seemed both ready for battle and barely dressed. His limbs were lithe and toned and where his skin was exposed it shone like the ivory on his throne. The baron felt both humbled and repulsed. He had never seen such a beguiling mixture of knightly perfection and vulgar, unashamed decadence.

  The young prince did not seem to hea
r his knight’s words. His attention was fixed on an empty wine glass in his hand. He was peering intently at his own face, reflected in the faceted crystal.

  “His guest?” whispered the baron, turning to the knight by his side. “You must be mistaken. I haven’t been—”

  The knight silenced him with a sneer.

  The baron felt a rush of indignation, assuming the knight disapproved of his earlier moment of weakness. He was about to repeat his excuse with a little more vehemence, when the prince looked up from his glass. His face crumpled into a petulant frown and he signalled for the purple-clad knight to approach. As the knight stepped to the prince’s side the young regent spoke, but to the baron’s dismay, the words were indecipherable. The prince’s voice was gentle, but his language sounded like that of the shambling giant that had led him to the throne room. The baron shook his head in confusion. Then he realised that the words were not directed at him anyway. The prince was pointing to his reflection in the glass and asking the knight to examine his face. From the rising panic in his voice, it seemed as though he had spotted something terrible.

  The knight stooped down by the prince’s side and lovingly brushed the boy’s flaxen hair away from his face. Then he peered closely at Sigvald’s forehead, while the prince anxiously waited with his eyes closed. The knight laughed and plucked something from the prince’s skin. He held it before up Sigvald’s face and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  The prince scowled at the knight’s hand, unconvinced. Then he leant forwards and looked back at his reflection. After a few more seconds of anxious pouting, his expression softened and he slumped back in his chair with a relieved sigh. Then he seemed to forget all about the knight and continued studying himself in the glass.

  “My prince,” said the knight, gesturing to the baron. “Your guest has arrived.”

  Sigvald looked up at the knight with a confused frown. He shook his head and snapped something indecipherable.

  The knight tried to twist his sneer into a smile and gestured again to Schüler.

  Sigvald finally turned towards the baron. His frown vanished and a broad grin spread across his face, revealing a row of even, gleaming teeth. “The Southling?” he said, in perfect Reikspiel. “Why didn’t you tell me, Víga-Barói?” His lethargy evaporated and his eyes glittered with excitement. He leapt from the throne and dragged Schüler to his feet, embracing him in a fierce hug. “How perfect you are!” he exclaimed, holding the bemused baron at arm’s length to study him. Sigvald looked his guest up and down, taking in the ragged mass of his furs, the battered state of his weapons and the gaunt ferocity of his face. He let out a burst of rippling laughter and hugged him again. “Perfect!” he cried.

  The baron felt a swell of pride and smoothed down his thick beard in an attempt to look more worthy of Sigvald’s praise. “My lord,” he said, bowing again. “I had no idea you were expecting me. I didn’t realise…” his words trailed off as the beaming prince hugged him again.

  “You’re everything I hoped for,” said Sigvald, running a hand over the baron’s weather-beaten face. “What a breath of fresh air,” he waved dismissively at the figures gathered on the dance floor, “after an eternity with these fawning inebriates.”

  The baron looked down from the dais and realised that the crowd was now motionless. The musicians on the balcony had fallen silent and the whole room was staring up at him. Even in the shifting light, he could see the jealousy on their bizarre faces. He flinched under a tide of hatred and turned back to the prince, eager to say his piece while he had the chance. “I came here seeking aid, my lord.” He lowered his voice to an urgent whisper and clenched his fists. “I need power. The Empire is in tatters.”

  Sigvald’s only reply was a bemused smile.

  A note of anger entered the baron’s voice. “The Emperor is doing nothing. I’ve come all this way, hoping to find someone who has the guts to finally rid us…” his words faltered as he saw the incomprehension in Sigvald’s eyes. He clamped his hands over his head, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. Then he waved back across the throne room to the crowds of figures. “Are these…” he paused again, unsure how to describe them. “Do you have an army, my lord?”

  Sigvald’s grin broadened, as though the baron had made a great joke. “Armies? Really, why would you talk of such things?” He gestured to the glittering columns that surrounded them. “Look at where you are.” He leant close to the baron, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter. “You’ve escaped all that tedium, my friend. Don’t you see? You’re finally, utterly free. You’ve emerged from a dusty, life-crushing cocoon.” He narrowed his eyes, and looked around suspiciously at their mute audience. “Think about it,” he whispered, with a sudden urgency in his voice. “You’ve escaped from a cocoon.” He looked down at his hands, grimacing as though he could see something unpleasant in his palms. “A cocoon.”

  As Sigvald stared at his hands his look of disgust grew until he was grimacing and shaking his head. Then, as suddenly as it came, the suspicion fell from his face and he looked up with another broad grin. “All you need do now is spread your wings!” He turned to the sneering knight. “Víga-Barói,” he snapped, “this is a welcome party, not a wake!”

  “My prince,” replied the knight with a nod of his head. Then he gestured to a distant balcony. At his signal, the musicians launched into a raucous, lurching tune and, with a rustle of taffeta and chitin, the dance was resumed.

  As music filled the room once more, Sigvald continued to smile, nodding excitedly at the baron. “The party is in your honour, my brave friend. We receive so few visitors up here at the edge of the world. Fewer than few. Fewer than none.” He giggled. “Not many have the courage to make it this far.” He grabbed the baron’s hand again and pulled him close. “You must have a great fire in you. A great fire.” He looked up as a bird glided overhead, lighting up their faces with its lantern. Sigvald watched it darting back and forth for a few moments, entranced; then he looked back at his guest with a confused laugh. “Who are you, friend?”

  “I’m a baron,” Schüler replied, looking a little dazed. “Baron Gustav Schüler, that is. I’ve travelled north, from the Empire. I’m from a great city, called Altdorf.” He looked down at the tattered red and blue heraldry on his armour as though it were more outlandish than anything he had seen so far. A note of disbelief entered his voice. “Or, at least, I was,”

  “Schüler, Schüler, Schüler of the Empire,” sang Sigvald, ignoring the baron’s grim tone. “Tonight we will celebrate your escape!” The prince leapt up onto his throne, threw hack his mane of hair and raised his glass to the distant vaulted ceiling. “Schüler of the Empire! Born again, at the end of the world!” Then he dropped down from the throne. His face was flushed with emotion as he grabbed a bottle of wine from the floor and filled the glass. “Drink, Schüler!” he cried, thrusting the glass into the baron’s hand. “Drink, drink, drink!”

  The baron looked hesitantly at the wine and then down at the writhing shapes at his feet. The pale figures had hacked away as soon as Sigvald had spoken to him, but as he lifted the glass to his lips, they purred expectantly and edged closer—smiling lewdly and caressing each other in anticipation. For a second he considered downing the wine. How easy it would be to abandon himself and forget everything. He was so tired and hungry, just a few mouthfuls would be enough and his body ached at the memory of their skilled caresses. Then he straightened his back and shook his head, lowering the wine without tasting it.

  “Prince,” he said, grimacing at the semi-clad shapes. “I came here seeking strength, not oblivion.”

  The prince followed the direction of his gaze and frowned in confusion. Then he smiled and took the glass back, draining it in one thirsty gulp. “Forgive me, Schüler,” he said, taking the baron’s hand again. “I’m so pleased to see you, I’m forgetting myself. You must be exhausted, and famished. Let me take you to your rooms and find you some food. Once you’re rested, we can discuss
your needs.” He turned to the murmuring shapes lying around them and gave them an indulgent smile. “But don’t be cross with my pets.” He knelt down and held out his hand. They rushed forwards and nuzzled against him: pressing their nakedness against his polished armour and licking his outstretched fingers with black, serpentine tongues. The prince smiled at their embrace. “They wish only to give pleasure, Schüler,” he said, placing a lingering kiss on the nearest one and rising back to his feet. “We should begin. There’s so much to see.”

  He turned to the knight in plum-coloured armour. “Víga-Barói,” he said, addressing him in softer tones than before. “Perhaps it would amuse our guest to speak to one of his own countrymen? Find Doctor Schliemann and ask him to meet us in the library.”

  The taciturn knight gave a nod and marched stiffly from the dais, quickly disappearing into the crush of dancing figures.

  “Now,” said Sigvald, leading the baron in the opposite direction, behind the throne towards the back of the chamber. “Where’s my chancellor?” As he led Schüler away from the dance, he paused and looked around with a hint of anxiety. “Oddrún,” he called, peering into the flashing lights. “Are you there?”

  There was no reply, so Sigvald let out a grunt of disapproval and continued leading the baron towards a door at the back of the throne room. As they reached the door, a tall shape loomed out of the shadows and stooped down to open it for them. Moonlight rushed in and revealed the huge, teetering giant.

  “There he is!” said Sigvald, with a grin. “Old Narrerback himself. This is my chancellor, baron—Oddrún is his real name. See how well he anticipates my needs.”

  Even in his confused state, the baron realised how incongruous Oddrún’s appearance was. The throne room was a menagerie of outlandish creatures but they were all elegant in their strangeness. The prince’s chancellor wore filthy, shapeless rags, and even they could not disguise the clumsy nature of his anatomy.