[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Sigvald shook his head violently and let out a despairing howl. “By the gods, Oddrún,” he cried, “can’t you just let me live?” He raised his sword. “Remember your—”

  At that moment the other riders crested the brow of a small hill and Sigvald finished his sentence with the word “friends!” He turned his scowl into a smile. “The doctor has just told me how easy it would be to enter Mord Huk’s citadel.”

  “You’re insane,” muttered Oddrún under his breath. As he shook his head, his hood fell back slightly and revealed a brief glimpse of pale grey flesh. He quickly pulled the sackcloth back into place, and looked back at the ground as the others reached the top of the slope.

  Baron Schüler and Víga-Barói rode up to the prince’s side.

  Víga-Barói had draped a fur-lined cloak over his purple armour, but his cruel face was exposed to the elements. As he approached, he shivered and ran a hand over his sodden, grey hair. “Why would anybody wish to enter Mord Huk’s citadel?” he purred, turning from Sigvald to Oddrún with a confused expression. “We would not be welcome in Ör.”

  Sigvald slammed the casket shut and strapped it to his saddle, with the doctor’s muffled voice still audible within. Then he turned his horse to face Víga-Barói’s. He gave Baron Schüler a conspiratorial grin before continuing. “We would fight our way in. You, out of everyone, should see the appeal in that.” He nodded to the sword at his side. “Think of the carnage if we were to storm the place. Think of the pain you could inflict on Mord Huk’s lumbering morons.”

  Víga-Barói looked from Sigvald to the baron and frowned. “Prince, I have often warned you of Mord Huk’s growing power. His armies have taken possession of great tracts of your land. You have never seemed to consider it a matter of importance.” He shook his head. “But now it would take a force of incredible strength to even reach the borders of our own kingdom, never mind attack the fortress of Ör.” His agitation was clearly growing as he considered Sigvald’s words, but his voice stayed as silky as ever. “If you wished to protect your kingdom, Geld-Prince, why have we allowed the Blood God’s legions to capture all of our outlying defences? And let our own numbers become so diminished? After the various amusements we have enjoyed over the decades, I could barely raise an army of a thousand men. And on top of that, Ör’s defences are legendary. It’s impossible to reach the inner citadel if Mord Huk does not wish it.”

  “Details,” interrupted Sigvald, waving his hand dismissively and losing interest in the conversation. “Look!” he cried, pointing into the snowstorm. “There it is!” He kicked his horse into a trot and rode off through the snowdrifts. “You were right, baron,” he called back. “I’ve never seen such a thing, outside of a painting.”

  Víga-Barói turned his permanent sneer on Baron Schüler for a moment, before racing after the prince.

  Sigvald’s horse thundered through the snow towards a shimmering frozen lake. Flying above him was a small bird.

  Baron Schüler turned his own horse towards the lake and tried to keep up with the others, while behind him, Oddrún stumbled, grunting, through the deep drifts.

  “Prince, wait!” cried Víga-Barói as they reached the edge of the ice, but Sigvald rode on unconcerned, not even slowing down as his horse’s hooves clattered out onto the lake’s surface.

  “What have you done?” asked Víga-Barói as the baron reached his side.

  “Done?” replied Schüler, as he met the knight’s fierce gaze.

  “Until you arrived, none of us could even persuade him to defend his kingdom. Now he wants to launch an attack against an impregnable fortress.”

  The baron shook his head as he watched Sigvald charging across the frozen lake with the bird gliding over his head. “How can that be? He fights like a daemon. Are you telling me he’s never even waged a war?”

  Víga-Barói leant back in his saddle and sighed. “Of course he’s waged war. The prince is blessed in ways you cannot imagine. Before we seized the Gilded Palace, nearly two hundred years ago, I marched with him to countless victories. The Old World has never seen such a warrior. But as with everything, he is so easily bored.” The knight paused, clearly regretting his candour. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that Oddrún had nearly caught up with them and he seemed unwilling to say any more in front of the chancellor.

  Schüler was staring at the flashes of gold that described Sigvald’s movement through the snow. Then he frowned. “Did you say two hundred years ago?”

  The knight laughed. “Oh yes, baron. Sigvald the Magnificent is not your average youth. He’s lived for nearly three centuries.” His grey eyes sparkled mischievously. “We should follow him onto the ice…” He waved one of his gauntleted hands at the lake. “In case something happens to him.”

  “It’s not safe,” grunted Oddrún from a few feet away. “The ice won’t hold.”

  Baron Schüler looked round at the hooded giant. His eyes flashed with an emotion that could either have been fear or excitement. “Then what about Sigvald?”

  Oddrún gave no reply but he seemed to be watching the baron closely.

  Víga-Barói nodded and waved again at the ice. “You’re right, baron. Come.” He tapped his armour-clad leg against the side of his horse, urging it onto the ice. At first the animal refused to move, rolling its eyes nervously and edging back from the lake, but Víga-Barói kicked harder and forced his mount forward. As he rode, he waved at the endless expanse of whiteness that surrounded them. “It’s not just the ice that’s dangerous out here. The prince’s kingdom is no longer the haven he imagines.”

  The baron looked around to see what the knight was referring to, but he could see nothing beyond the fierce storm. He muttered an oath under his breath and rode out onto the lake as slowly as he could, keeping a few feet between him and the knight.

  The ice creaked and groaned like the deck of a ship as they edged out towards the centre of the lake. Sigvald was oblivious to their approach. He had opened the casket again and was speaking to the severed head. The bird was barely visible as it soared through the spiralling snowflakes, but every now and then it would let out a peevish caw, taunting the prince as he raced after it. As the two knights peered through the snow at him, Sigvald leant back in his saddle, swinging a net around his head. Just as he drew back the net to throw it, the horse slipped and stumbled, sending the prince flying from its back. There was a brief flash of gold armour and then the prince vanished from view.

  Víga-Barói cursed and dismounted. “Quick,” he snapped at the baron, before sprinting off across the ice.

  The baron watched the knight vanish into the blinding glare. Then he smiled and turned his horse around, riding slowly back towards the land. “So easy to manipulate,” he muttered under his breath. After just a few feet, however, the smile dropped from his face.

  A tall shadow had appeared at the edge of the lake, silhouetted against the snow.

  “Who’s that?” he muttered, wiping the ice from his face. “Oddrún?”

  As he approached the shape, he saw that it could not be Sigvald’s hunchbacked chancellor. It was almost as tall as Oddrún, but where he was lanky and swathed in filthy rags, this man was thickset and wore plates of blood-red armour, edged with tall brass spikes and draped with dozens of bleached skulls. His face was hidden behind a brutal, homed helmet and he carried a huge, two-handed axe. The baron felt a chill of fear as he recognised him. It was one of the knights who had butchered his men during the journey north: one of the knights Sigvald had spied from the palace rooftops. As Schüler looked on in horror, more shadows appeared, spreading out along the edge of the lake and blocking his way to safety. A deep metallic laughter rang out from within their helmets.

  The baron cursed and looked back over his shoulder. The others were nowhere to be seen. “I’m a knight of the Gilded Palace,” he called out, conscious of how small his voice sounded in the swirling vastness of the snowstorm. “Prince Sigvald the Magnificent is my patron.”

  The kn
ights began to laugh harder, causing the skulls to rattle against their serrated armour. One of them stepped forward and slammed his axe down into the ice. There was a deep snapping sound as the surface of the lake began to crack and splinter, sending a jagged line straight towards the baron’s feet.

  Schüler gasped and backed his horse away from the quickly spreading network of cracks. “Sigvald!” he cried, rising up in his saddle and attempting to lift his voice above the howling wind. “We’re attacked!”

  There was no response and some of the other knights hammered their axes down into the ice, causing it to fracture and split into dozens of separate plates.

  Schüler drew his sword and looked around with growing desperation. He was no coward, but there were at least eight of the armour-clad brutes. He steered his horse back from the edge of the lake, with the dark lines of the cracks following after him like crooked fingers.

  He felt a rush of air as a horse clattered past him. The movement was so fast he hardly had time to register it before he saw one of the horned knights stumble and reach for his throat. As Schüler tried to control his mount, he saw the knight’s head topple from his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, trying to stem the fountain of blood that erupted from his neck and then crashed to the ground, dead.

  The other knights whirled around in confusion. The only sign of their attacker was a cloud of snow and a quickly disappearing line of hoof prints trailing off towards the hills. They turned their backs on Schüler and crowded together, muttering to each other in a thick, guttural language and scouring the snow for signs of another attack.

  “I tamed him,” cried Sigvald, riding back into view. He was holding one of his hands in the air and perched on his wrist was the bird. It looked just like a raven but its feathers were as pure and white as the snow. The prince was looking straight past the group of knights and grinning excitedly over their heads at the baron. “The good doctor has proven his worth yet again.”

  As the beheaded knight pumped his lifeblood out across the snow and ice, the other warriors turned their featureless helms in Sigvald’s direction. “Filthy pleasure seeker,” growled one of them, levelling his axe at the prince.

  Sigvald seemed oblivious to the danger as he rode back down the slope, admiring his new pet.

  As one, the knights charged towards him, drawing back their axes as they ploughed through the deep drifts.

  As the first one approached him, Sigvald looked away from the bird with an expression of mild irritation. “Be careful,” he said, lashing out with the rapier he held in his other hand. The blade seemed to have a will of its own, twisting around the warrior’s axe with an undulating, serpentine grace, and plunging straight through a gap in his plate armour.

  The knight stiffened as Sigvald’s sword briefly emerged from his back, then he crashed down into the snow with a grunt, dropping his axe and clutching at one of his armpits in agony. Fresh blood sprayed between the fingers of his gauntlets and he rolled back towards the lake.

  Sigvald rode slowly on, calling out to the baron as he fought. “The doctor taught me a simple phrase. One the elves use to subdue the great eagles of their homeland.” He frowned and rammed his sword through the visor of another knight, impaling his skull and then withdrawing his blade in a shower of blood and sparks. “Look how odd it is,” he cried, lifting the bird higher, allowing the moonlight to wash over its flawless white feathers. “A white raven. Have you ever seen anything so strange?” He shook his head in wonder as he planted his boot in the chest of the next knight to lunge at him. “Such an orphan of nature. So different and beautiful. So perfect. What a wonderful addition to my menagerie.”

  As Sigvald’s horse trotted calmly through the scrum of knights, the prince seemed quite indifferent to their fierce war cries and vicious attacks. His sword arm weaved back and forth with lightning precision, skewering heads and slicing throats, but Sigvald only had eyes for the raven.

  There was another loud crack and the plates of ice around Schüler began to pitch and roll, swinging up from the ink-black water and sending his horse stumbling backwards. The baron grunted and kicked his horse into action, sending it galloping over the broadening cracks. To his relief, the sound of the horse’s hooves quickly changed from a clatter to a thud, but he was far from safe. As he approached the soldiers, one of them rushed in his direction, raising his axe over his head as he charged through the snow.

  Schüler raised his sword in time to block the blow, but the axe was so big his sword buckled under the impact and he toppled from his horse. He cursed as he thudded to the ground and dropped the blade. As the knight charged towards him, Schüler threw a wild punch, clanging his armoured fist against his opponent’s helmet and sending him sprawling back into the snow. Schüler leapt onto his chest, trying to wrench the axe from his hands. Even after weeks of Sigvald’s hospitality, the baron’s body was still weak from his long journey through the Chaos Wastes. As he wrestled with the knight, his arms began to tremble and he found himself being forced slowly back. Eventually, the knight threw him off with a bellicose roar and clambered to his feet, still clutching his huge axe.

  Schüler scrambled backwards through the snow as the knight loomed over him, raising his axe to strike again. Then the baron groaned in relief as another, even taller figure rose up behind the knight and wrapped its filthy, bandaged arms around him.

  “Oddrún,” gasped the baron as the chancellor hurled the knight down into the snow.

  The knight rolled to one side and clambered immediately to his feet, spitting out a curse and drawing back his axe again.

  Oddrún had no weapon and seemed unwilling to attack.

  The knight’s axe thudded into his hunched body and he span backwards, crumpling into the snow without a sound.

  “Oddrún!” cried Sigvald in a horrified voice, leaping down from his horse.

  The knight in the horned helmet crouched low, bracing himself for the impact of Sigvald’s attack; but before the prince could even reach him, he roared in agony and toppled backwards.

  Standing behind him was Víga-Barói. He had drawn two meat hooks from his belt and jammed them into the knight’s breastplate. As the horned brute screamed in pain and fury, Víga-Barói wrenched open his armour leaving behind two ragged trenches in his chest where the hooks had sliced through him. As the knight slumped backwards, coughing and clutching his bloody chest, Víga-Barói moved with lightning speed, pinning the knight in place by jamming the hooks back into his chest and stamping them into the frozen ground with his iron-clad boots. As the warrior’s screams grew even more desperate, Víga-Barói drew another two meat hooks from his belt, tore off the man’s leg armour and sliced the hooks down through his thighs. In the space of a few seconds, the knight had gone from a towering armour-clad monster to a screaming, defenceless mess of torn flesh and straining muscles.

  “Your highness,” said Víga-Barói quietly, bowing at the approaching prince and then gesturing to the supine warrior. “Would you like the honour?”

  Sigvald did not even acknowledge Víga-Barói as he raced to Oddrún’s side. His chancellor was lying in a motionless heap, with snow settling quickly over his sackcloth robes.

  “Oddrún?” cried the prince, with a note of panic in his voice as he cradled the giant’s head in his arms.

  A low gargling noise came from within the hood and the chancellor gently freed himself from Sigvald’s grip. Oddrún backed away and climbed to his feet, apparently unharmed by the axe that had sunk deep into his chest. The only sign of his injury was a thin tear in his robes. He shuffled away from the others and raised his hand, indicating that they should not follow.

  Sigvald looked suddenly embarrassed by his display of concern and stood up, smoothing his long hair out of his face and wiping the blood from his polished armour. “Excuse me,” he said, to no one in particular. He looked around at his other companions. Víga-Barói was waiting patiently next to his struggling, whining captive and Baron Schüler was still sprawled on t
he ground, gasping for breath and massaging his throbbing arms.

  “Who are these idiots?” asked the prince, finally seeming to notice the piles of bodies he had left scattered across the snow. He stepped up to the one survivor: the man that Víga-Barói had staked to the ground. “Who are you, idiot?” he asked, as his handsome face twisted into a childish pout. “Who are you to pit yourself against Sigvald the Magnificent?” Receiving no reply, he nodded at Víga-Barói, indicating that he should remove the man’s helmet.

  Without his armour, the warrior was surprisingly human. His face was white with pain and speckled with blood, but it was still the face of a normal man. He glared up at Sigvald with dark, burning eyes and spat defiantly onto his own bloody chest.

  Sigvald shrugged and looked at Víga-Barói. “It looks like you have your next subject.” He stooped a little closer to the struggling man and tapped the tip of his sword on his ribs. There was a symbol tattooed on his chest that looked like a cross between an X and a stylised skull. “The Blood God,” he said, tracing his sword over the icon. “This is one of Mord Huk’s men.” He looked up at Víga-Barói. “Do what you like to him, but don’t let him die. He might be useful.” Then he frowned and looked at his arm. “The raven,” he cried, spinning on the spot as he scoured the heavens for the bird. “There he goes,” he gasped, pointing his sword at a distant flash of white, gliding beneath the pregnant clouds. “Perfect!” he cried, letting out a burst of delighted laughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “You’re leaving me behind?” cried Freydís, shaking her head in disbelief as she rose from Sigvald’s bed.

  Sigvald raised his hands defensively as he backed away from her. They were both naked and as he dropped from the bed he plucked his armour from a pile of empty bottles and dirty plates. “Someone has to stay. Who else can I trust? You and Ansgallür must ensure the safety of the Gilded Palace, if I’m to properly defend our borders.”