[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Schüler stood up and looked down the table. At the far end of the hall he saw the cruel, scarred face of Víga-Barói, glaring at the guests as he entered the room. He had removed the bloody apron and was once more dressed in antiquated purple armour. He was still flanked by the blank-eyed Sigmarite who was now acting as a squire, carrying Sigvald’s shield and a rapier. There was another figure at Víga-Barói’s side: long-limbed and pale, but otherwise indiscernible, due to a mass of lilac hair that drifted around it like seaweed caught in the tide. As the guests turned towards Víga-Barói and his entourage, he bowed low and gestured at the doorway. “The Geld-Prince, Sigvald the Magnificent,” he said, backing away into the shadows.

  The guests remained silent as three figures stepped into the candlelight. Baron Schüler gasped as he saw Sigvald. His golden armour had been polished to a blinding sheen but his handsome face was even more dazzling. The young prince glowed with inner nobility. He did not seem to belong in the mortal realm at all and the baron suddenly wondered if the prince was actually some kind of god. Schüler’s fear and doubt vanished as the prince approached the table. How could such a gallant figure allow any harm to come to him? How could such a man be anything other than divine? Then, as Sigvald stepped to one side and gestured to a chair, the baron noticed his companions. Behind him was his constant shadow, the lurching chancellor Oddrún and then, taking the seat that was offered to her, was a young woman. For a second, Schüler forgot all about the prince and began staring at his wife. Her face was hidden behind a purple veil, but the rest of her body was almost entirely naked. Six slender strips of black leather were all that preserved her modesty and, as the candlelight traced over her soft curves and long, graceful limbs, the baron found himself leaning across the table to see her more clearly.

  He flinched as he felt hot breath on his ear.

  “Now you see why I have to keep her under lock and key,” whispered Ansgallür the Famished with a lewd chuckle. “Sigvald butchered an entire city just to place one kiss on her hand. Imagine what he would do to anyone who touched her.” The bulbous head shuffled closer to the baron. “It’s said that one glimpse of her face is enough to destroy a man.”

  Schüler turned to his grotesque confidant with a question on his lips but at that moment Sigvald addressed his subjects.

  “We are all princes here, my friends,” he cried, throwing his arms open to the motley assortment of creatures and lighting up the room with his dazzling smile. “The gates of the Gilded Palace do not admit anything less.” He turned his luminous gaze on Baron Schüler. “And now we have a new brother. A fellow traveller on this long journey of self discovery.”

  The guests all turned towards the baron with forced, brittle grins, but he was blind to their jealousy as he bathed in Sigvald’s indulgent smile.

  Sigvald signalled for everyone to be seated and then he began talking quietly to Oddrún who had crouched next to him, looking like a giant, robed insect.

  Servants appeared, laden with trays of food, and the guests began to eat, but the baron could not take his eyes off Sigvald and his wife. As he watched them eating, he abandoned his thoughts of escape, realising that he could do nothing better than devote his life to these resplendent beings. He pushed his plate away and rose from his chair. The other guests paused to watch him as he walked to the head of the table. They lowered their forks and whispered to each other, clearly shocked by this break with protocol.

  Sigvald did not notice the baron’s approach and continued whispering urgently to Oddrún as Schüler reached his side. The prince and the chancellor were both examining something on the chancellor’s lap: a gold casket, inscribed with runes and columns of impossibly tiny text.

  The baron began to feel a little ridiculous. He realised that Víga-Barói and all the other guests were glaring at him as he waited to be noticed. After a few moments, the princess looked up at him from behind her veil.

  “I believe your latest ‘prince’ wishes to speak to you my darling,” she said. Her voice was as soft and beguiling as the rest of her, but there was an edge of sarcasm to it that made the baron feel even more absurd.

  Sigvald looked up in surprise. “Baron,” he whispered, looking up and noticing that the exchange was being watched by all the other guests. “You should not rise from your seat before I do.” He stood up and addressed the whole room. “Our guest is exhausted from his long journey. I will forgive his poor manners on this occasion.” He waved the baron back to his chair. “Sit down quickly,” he hissed. “Or they will expect to see some sport.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” said the baron, bowing low. “I only wanted to thank you for your hospitality and pay my respects to your wife.”

  Sigvald gave him a strained grin. “Of course.” Then his grin became more genuine as an idea occurred to him. He gestured for the other guests to rise. “Actually, your timing is perfect, Baron Schüler.” He raised his voice to the rest of the room again. “Now we’ve eaten, I think it’s time I revealed my latest work.”

  The guests all leapt to their feet, eager to see what Sigvald had to show them.

  He took the gold casket from Oddrún’s bandaged hands and held it over his head. “Youth should be timeless,” he cried, moving away from his chair and pacing around the banqueting hall. “It should not be weighed down by the miserable demands of age and infirmity.” He leapt up onto the table, scattering plates and candles as he landed on the polished marble. “Those who chose to join me on this wonderful journey will not be left to rot like their ancestors. We will not be abandoned to the worms for no good reason.” He tapped the box in his hands. “In this palace I have gathered alchemists, warriors, artists and seers the like of which the world has never seen. I will not simply abandon them to the cruel predations of nature.”

  The guests grinned ecstatically at this impassioned speech and several of them began to applaud, despite having no idea what the prince was talking about.

  “A thing of beauty must be saved for all eternity,” cried Sigvald, twisting a catch on the side of the box and causing the front panel to drop onto the table with a clatter.

  The guests all leant forward to see what was in the box.

  Baron Schüler grimaced in disgust, but the other guests roared their approval.

  Clamped in place by a crown of copper foils was the severed head of Doctor Rusas Schliemann. His eyes were wide with terror as he surveyed the banqueting hall and as the applause grew, the doctor’s head started to scream uncontrollably.

  Sigvald waved at the stern figure of Víga-Barói and his entourage. “Through the blending of alchemy and surgery, we have managed to preserve one of the greatest scientific minds of the age.” He raised his voice to be heard over the doctor’s desperate screams. “Doctor Rusas Schliemann was dying. Nature had abandoned his genius to decay and decrepitude, but I have preserved it. Now, his wisdom will live forever.”

  As the screams cut through the applause, the baron turned away in horror. He saw that he was not the only one who lacked Sigvald’s enthusiasm for the new toy. Oddrún had his hooded head in his hands and was shaking with emotion. Is he crying, wondered the baron, confused by the chancellor’s display of compassion. Then he noticed the princess. Unlike the others, she had remained seated, and had not joined in with the applause. Her face was still hidden behind her veil, but she was drumming her fingers on the marble table with such ferocity that her anger was unmistakable.

  The princess seemed to realise she was being studied and looked over in the baron’s direction. Even with her face hidden, it was obvious she was glaring at him. Her slender body was taut with rage. Then she looked away as Víga-Barói stepped up to her side and whispered in her ear. She nodded in reply, and as the purple-clad knight strolled away, her shoulders relaxed and she signalled for the baron to approach.

  Baron Schüler hesitated, remembering the warning of Ansgallür the Famished. He looked over at Sigvald to see if he was watching, but the prince was now surrounded by a hysterica
l mob. He had summoned his subjects up onto the table and they were all pressing against him, cheering ecstatically, stroking his hair and straining to get a closer look at the severed head. The baron had no wish to displease the prince with another breach of protocol, but the princess seemed insistent.

  “Princess,” he said, bowing low as he approached. He noticed that Oddrún looked up sharply as he spoke to the girl, but she simply patted the chair next to hers and poured the baron some wine.

  “Tell me your name,” she said. The hint of sharpness was now totally absent from her voice. It poured like honey from behind her veil and left the baron momentarily tongue-tied.

  “I’m Baron Gustav Schüler,” he said once he had regained his composure, and took the offered cup of wine, averting his gaze from her exposed flesh as he did so. Despite his awkwardness, the baron felt a rush of relief. It seemed like a lifetime since he had spoken to a normal human being.

  “I’m Freydís,” she replied, with a self-deprecating laugh. “That most worthless chattel of Prince Sigvald.”

  “Chattel? I’m sure that’s not true, my lady. I heard that the prince laid waste to a whole city in pursuit of your love.”

  The princess flinched. Then she laughed again, but this time it was edged with sadness. “You make it sound so romantic. Who told you about that, Gustav?”

  The baron looked back at the jeering mob that was staggering across the table. He could just about make out the bloated head of Ansgallür the Famished. His enormous jowls were trembling with laughter and his limbs were attempting to snake around the jubilant prince.

  “Oh, of course,” said the princess, following his gaze and nodding. “My garrulous keeper.” She leant closer to the baron, forcing him to cough in embarrassment and avert his gaze again. “That was all a lifetime ago. My husband’s passion burns brightly, but briefly.” She placed a hand on the baron’s arm. “Be aware of that, Gustav. It only takes one dull comment to lose his love.”

  There was such sadness in the girl’s words that for a moment the baron forgot all about his terrifying surroundings and felt a rush of simple pity. “He’s so jealous he keeps you hidden away. What’s that, if not love?”

  The princess laughed and squeezed the baron’s arm. “Boredom, Gustav. He keeps me locked away because I’m the last thing he wants to see. I suppose there must be some vestige of affection though, or I wouldn’t be here at all.” She leant back in her chair with a sigh. “I’ve not given up hope though. I have a last card to play.” She shook her head. “But anyway, I didn’t call you over so I could bore you too. What are you doing here, Gustav? You don’t look much like a libertine to me. There’s too much honesty in your eyes. I think I can still recognise such a thing.” She waved at the banqueting hall. “What would bring an honest man to a carnal pit such as this?”

  The baron pulled back his shoulders and stuck out his beard, trying to regain a little of his military posture. “It’s true, princess,” he said, clenching his untasted wine a little tighter. “I did not come here seeking debauchery. I came here seeking power.” He tapped the purple armour that covered his wasted limbs. “My body may look ruined, but I assure you I am one of the Empire’s greatest soldiers.” He grimaced. “But I was ruled by blinkered simpletons, unable to see the truth. They could not see that we need to harness the power that flows from the north, rather than simply labelling it as witchcraft. I grew sick of it: sick of their naivety. While they debated matters of faith and doctrine, our citadels were burning to the ground. So I came north, looking for something better.” He nodded at Sigvald. “And in your prince I think I’ve found it.” He waved his cup at the writhing figures. “If I could just learn from him. If I could tap into the power he has, I’m sure I could finally achieve something. I need victory, princess.”

  Freydís raised her eyebrows at the passion in the baron’s voice.

  “Forgive me,” he said, noticing her amusement and lowering his voice.

  “My husband certainly has power,” she said with a smile. “But I’m not sure he’s all that you imagine, Gustav.”

  The baron shrugged and looked at the prince. He had managed to silence the doctor’s screams and was now forcing the head to recite poems for the amusement of the crowd. “He has the strength to actually change things,” he said in hushed, awed tones.

  The princess laughed softly and took his hand. “Would you escort me back to my chambers, Gustav? I’m no longer hungry and it seems that my guardian is a little busy.”

  The baron withdrew his hand as though he had been burned. “Princess,” he gasped, looking anxiously around the room. “I don’t think it would be appropriate. What would your husband say? Surely your guardian can…” his words faltered. As he looked across the table he saw Ansgallür’s bloated head had rolled onto its back and his huge gaping mouth was roaring with laughter. There was dark liquid pouring down his chin that the baron hoped was wine.

  “It won’t take long,” said the princess, sounding a little impatient as she offered him her arm and pointed at the nearest door. “My chambers are in the sixth tower. It’s just a few minutes away.”

  The baron shook his head again. There was a playful, dangerous edge to Freydís’ voice that terrified him. He had endured too much to throw it all away now by enraging his host. Víga-Barói was stood nearby, talking to the creature surrounded by long tendrils of violet hair. The knight caught Schüler’s gaze and noticed his predicament. He leant closer to his companion and they both began to laugh.

  “I can’t,” said the baron, rising from his chair and backing away.

  The princess laughed softly. “It’s true, you do have a lot to learn from Sigvald. Very well,” she said, sounding disappointed. “You can at least fetch my coat then. Unless you wish me to freeze to death, that is?”

  “No, of course not,” muttered the baron, still looking nervously around the room to see who was watching the exchange.

  “Good. It’s that way,” said the princess, waving to a distant doorway. “A white fur. You can’t miss it.”

  The baron gave her a small bow and rushed towards the door, suddenly eager to be away from her. He found himself in a small, empty chamber and shook his head in confusion. There was no sign of a coat, so he hurried through the next door and out onto one of the slender bridges that linked the palace’s towers.

  The snowstorm was still raging and the cold sliced through the gaps in his armour as he peered along the bridge. “This can’t be right,” he muttered.

  “I must have been mistaken,” came a voice from behind him.

  The baron felt a rush of fear as he recognised the soft, playful tones.

  “Princess,” he gasped, turning to face her. He flushed with embarrassment as his eyes passed over her naked curves. He quickly shifted his gaze up to her face, but then he stumbled to a halt. The storm had twisted the veil around to the back of her head, and it had caught on a piece of railing, leaving her face completely exposed.

  “Forgive me, Gustav,” said Freydís with a coy smile, holding his gaze for a moment before drawing the veil back into place. “I don’t think I brought a coat, actually.” As she pulled the veil free it tore slightly, and as she stepped closer to the baron her face was still visible.

  The baron remained motionless as the princess’ slender form moved towards him through the snowstorm. One glimpse of her ivory skin was more lethal than any wound he had ever endured. He slumped back against the railings and clamped his hands over his eyes, trying to protect himself.

  “I suppose you’d better get me back to my room,” she whispered, stepping closer and gently taking his hands. “You might have a point. If anyone saw us alone together, they could get completely the wrong idea.”

  The baron’s face was twisted by lust and terror, but as the princess pressed her warm body against his, the fear slipped away, leaving only a hungry glint in his eyes. He noticed that he was still clutching the cup of wine. Suddenly, his abstinence seemed pathetic, childlike even. He
gulped the drink down and closed his eyes, sighing with pleasure as the alcohol raced to his brain. Then he threw the cup to the ground and locked the princess in a fierce embrace, kissing her as urgently as he had drunk the wine, forgetting everything but his desire.

  For a few minutes they remained there, shrouded in snow as they held each other. Then they slipped away, ghostlike through the storm.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A midday sun glared down across the steppe as Ungaur stood back to admire his handiwork. He had cleared a circle in the long grass and staked the victim’s limbs into the cracked, baked earth. The man was beginning to stir, but his eyes were still clouded and unseeing. It would he several hours before the effect of the herbs wore off, and he would be dead long before that. Ungaur lifted his curved knife up in front of a perfect, cobalt sky. Sunlight flashed along the serrated blade. “Völtar the Wolf,” he intoned, closing his eyes and tilting his face back to allow the sun to wash over his face. “I have served you well. I beg you to aid me now.” He ran the knife along his naked chest, and as the blood began to flow, he wiped it away and threw it down on to the face of his moaning victim. “Sväla will lead your children away from you. If I do not stop her, the sacrifices will cease and you will go hungry.”

  Ungaur opened his eyes and looked out across the shimmering steppe. A sound had interrupted his train of thought. At first he saw nothing but then, shielding his eyes from the sun with the flat of his bloody knife, he saw a man striding through the grass towards him. His frame was as large and heavily muscled as Ungaur’s, but unlike the shaman, he wore no furs. His only clothing was a loincloth and his entire body was dyed a deep red. Even his short Mohican was dyed the same colour. “Rurik,” muttered Ungaur. Even at this distance he could not mistake the chieftain. Other members of the Drékar tribe had been known to paint themselves red, but none of them had a mangled piece of metal for a fist. Ungaur knew the strange mutation well. He had been present on the day Rurik first returned from the north and revealed his new blessing. Powerful sorcery had allowed the chieftain’s flesh to meld with the jagged lump of iron. He had never explained exactly how he came by it, saying simply that it was a gift.