[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Freydís let out a scream of such fury that it caused several of the prince’s courtesans to leap from beneath the bed sheets and dash from the chamber, clutching their clothes from the floor as they went. “You’re a liar!” she howled, flinging a silver plate at his head. “You don’t care what happens to this palace. Any more than you care about what happens to me. You’ve no interest in defending anything.”

  Sigvald ducked and the plate clattered harmlessly across walls, leaving a ruby-red stripe of wine sauce across his face. He wiped the sticky substance from his cheek and shook his head in disgust. “Look at this,” he muttered, turning a furious glare on his wife. “How dare you question the will of Sigvald the Magnificent?” He shook his head in genuine disbelief. “How dare you?”

  The princess flicked her long black hair from her face and levelled a trembling finger at Sigvald. “You’re lying! Admit it! You would only start a war for your own amusement. Mord Huk must have something you want. That’s the only explanation. You wouldn’t risk a single broken fingernail for your subjects.”

  Sigvald’s face blushed bright red. “Ansgallür!” he howled, shaking with rage and flinging his breastplate at Freydís’ head. “Take this wretched woman away from me!”

  The princess laughed bitterly as the armour clanged against the wall. “Why am I surprised at being abandoned?” she cried, with tears welling in her eyes. “You’ve no love for anything. Anything other than yourself, that is.”

  The smell of half-digested meat flooded the bedchamber as the gelatinous head of Ansgallür squeezed through the doorframe. His huge, watery eyes surveyed the carnage in the room and the two naked combatants at its centre. He was careful not to look directly at the princess’ face as, with a fluid, serpentine movement, one of his long limbs shot across the room and wrapped itself around her slender frame. As the princess drew breath to let out another scream, he wrapped another tentacle firmly around her head, muffling her cries with his rubbery flesh.

  “My lord,” he said, as the mute princess struggled in his grip. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No!” roared Sigvald. Then he took a deep breath and repeated himself in a more controlled voice. “No,” he said, as he wiped the rest of the sauce from his cheek. He stepped beneath a nearby window and lifted his chin so that the moonlight washed over his face. “Am I harmed in any way?”

  Ansgallür’s tentacles carried him across the room in a series of strange, lurching swoops. Upon reaching Sigvald’s side he shook his head. “No, my prince. Your skin is as immaculate as ever.” He looked at the food, wine and clothes that covered the floor and grinned. “It’s a wonderful testament to your virtuous habits.”

  Sigvald’s lips curled back in a sneer. “Don’t try my patience, Ansgallür.” He jabbed a finger at the huge face swaying in front of him. “I’ve had—” he cut himself short with a gasp of pain and clutched his head. “That wine,” he groaned. He looked down at the empty bottles. “Please kill whoever chose it.”

  Ansgallür stretched his monstrous mouth into a smile. “With pleasure, my prince.” He drew a small green vial from beneath his nest of coiled limbs and held it up to Sigvald. “Is there anything I can give you?”

  “No,” snapped Sigvald, eyeing the small vial with suspicion. “Well,” he muttered, snatching it from Ansgallür’s grip and emptying its contents in one swallow, “maybe.” His eyes widened and he staggered back towards the bed. One of Ansgallür’s limbs reached out to steady him and for a few seconds the prince lolled weakly in the monster’s grip. Then he shook his head and laughed. “What was that?” he asked, smiling as he weaved drunkenly towards the door. “No, on second thoughts don’t tell me.” He laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head again. “I feel much better.”

  “My prince,” said Ansgallür, waving to the gold armour that was scattered around the bedchamber.

  Sigvald looked back at him in confusion, still swaying slightly from the effects of the green vial. Then he looked down at himself, laughing as he remembered that he was naked. “Ah, yes,” he said, grabbing a silk sheet from the bed and wrapping it round himself like a toga. Then he stumbled off through a series of antechambers, knocking into chairs and muttering under his breath as he went.

  Sigvald adjusted the silk sheet as he entered Víga-Barói’s surgeries. Whatever Ansgallür had plied him with had left him unable to walk properly. As he staggered past the mounds of half-dismembered patients he knocked into several of the tables and sent knives and limbs tumbling onto the bloodstained floor. The light in this wing of the palace came from huge, hissing oil lamps screwed to the walls and it was almost as bright as daylight. Víga-Barói’s surgeons insisted it was necessary for their more delicate operations, but as Sigvald struggled to walk in a straight line, he found such incandescence completely disorientating. Cruel-looking implements lined the walls and body parts were stacked in the doorways, blocking many of the passages. It took Sigvald nearly an hour to find the room he was looking for.

  Víga-Barói’s private chambers resembled a macabre workshop: teetering instruments of torture filled every available space, each of them draped with razor-sharp wires and bloody, iron clamps. Sigvald paid the machines no attention as he weaved between them and dropped heavily into a chair. “What have you discovered?” he asked, sensing movement in the far corner of the room.

  “My prince,” gasped the knight, remaining in the shadows.

  Sigvald closed his eyes and let out a sigh of pleasure. “I feel much better,” he muttered. As he lolled weakly in the chair, he had the vague impression that Víga-Barói was extracting himself from one of the devices; there was a sudden patter of blood on the flagstones and a creak of rusty metal, but Sigvald was far too comfortable to lift his head and see exactly what his captain was doing.

  After a few minutes, Víga-Barói stepped in front of him. He was clad in his usual purple breastplate, but it looked as though he had dressed in a hurry. Some of the small hooks were not properly attached to his flesh and his scarred face was flushed with an unusual amount of colour. There were also splashes of fresh blood on his forearms and beneath his long fingernails.

  Sigvald had long ago exhausted his interest in Víga-Barói’s particular vices, but he could not help noticing the Sigmarite monk huddled at the far end of the room. Standing next to him was Víga-Barói’s chief surgeon, the strange creature called Hazül. Both of them were drenched in fresh blood.

  Sigvald nodded at Hazül and it bowed in reply. As it stooped, the lilac strands of hair drifting around it parted briefly to reveal a knotted, wiry mass of razors and crudely sewn skin.

  “Are you sure there is no danger in keeping such pets?” Sigvald asked, slurring his words slightly as he nodded at the monk.

  “Brother Bürmann?” Víga-Barói’s sneer grew more pronounced. “I suppose there might be.” He shrugged and looked across at him. The priest looked utterly dazed and seemed unaware of the bloody knife in his hand. “But if he’d completely lost his faith, he would cease to amuse me.”

  Sigvald yawned. “I see.” He rose from his chair and lurched towards the cowled figure.

  As the monk watched the intoxicated, half-naked youth stumbling towards him, a faint look of disgust or fear flashed in his eyes.

  “You’re right,” said Sigvald, grinning as he prodded him in the chest. “He’s judging me. He must remember something of his past.” He laughed and pulled his silk sheet a little higher. “Forgive me,” he said, “I haven’t had the upbringing you have.” He turned to Hazül. “Does he ever speak?”

  Hazül shook its head and waved at the scar on the side of the priest’s neck.

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  “My prince,” said Víga-Barói, sounding slightly flustered. “Is this merely a social call? You asked a question when you arrived.”

  Sigvald turned to him with a confused frown. “A question?” He dropped back in the chair and shook his head. “I can’t… Oh, yes,” he said, sitting
up and looking around the chamber. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “A drink? No. Is that why you came?”

  “No? Really?” Sigvald shook his head. Then he climbed to his feet again. “Of course that’s not why I came here. I came to ask you about the warrior we captured yesterday. Mord Huk’s soldier.”

  Víga-Barói raised his eyebrows. “Oh, of course,” he said, looking relieved. “Yes, he was a difficult nut to crack. The followers of the Blood God have no real fear of physical pain, you understand, so Hazül’s usual methods were not very effective.” He waved the prince to a door behind the surgeon. “Let me show you.”

  He led the prince past a series of locked doors and down a narrow stairwell. Sigvald had to grip the wall as he lurched down the ancient, worn steps that led to Víga-Barói’s cellars. As they descended, the harsh light of the lamps was replaced by a soft, pink glow. “The Blood God’s minions do, however, have a profound dislike of sorcery,” continued the knight as they reached the bottom step and stepped into a small, unfurnished room.

  At the centre of the room was hung the body of the prisoner; or rather, the various parts of his body were hanging in the centre of the room, suspended by a thick web of pink light. Each of the man’s organs and limbs were held roughly in place by the glowing strands and as the energy waxed and waned, the body parts swayed slightly, causing the disembodied head to gasp in agony. Hunched on the stone floor in a pool of the man’s blood was a small, hooded figure, no bigger than a child. At the sound of their footfalls, the robes shifted slightly and Sigvald saw a face that was more fish than man looking back at him from within the hood. Its huge, blank eyes were sat on the side of a pink, scaly head and its large pouting mouth was twisted down in a fixed grimace. The pink light was trailing up from the fish man’s crumpled robes and he was clearly the source of the power that was holding the body aloft.

  “As you can see,” said Víga-Barói, waving at the bizarre display, “I had to enlist the help of Énka.”

  Sigvald gave the hunched, stunted figure a brusque nod and stepped closer to the trembling body parts, being careful to avoid the steady shower of blood that was dripping to the floor. He smiled in appreciation of the sorcerer’s magic. “And by doing this, you have been able to find out what exactly?”

  “Everything,” replied the knight, stepping under the shower of gore and closing his eyes as the prisoner’s blood washed over his upturned face. He patted the tiny, hooded figure on the shoulder and then stepped to the prince’s side. “I have learnt everything there is to know about the fortress of Ör,” he said, wiping his face. “I can now say with complete confidence that it is impregnable.” He leant close to the prince and lowered his voice. “I’m not sure what your friend Baron Schüler has told you, but an attack on Mord Huk would be suicide.”

  Sigvald’s smile dropped from his face. He glared at the knight in silence for a few seconds, then grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. As he did so, he noticed that the knight let out a small whimper of pleasure, but he did not loosen his grip. “Énka?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the blank-eyed creature.

  “Sigvald,” replied the sorcerer with a liquid gurgle.

  “Let the man down.”

  The sorcerer looked at the pile of twitching organs hanging over his head and opened his mouth slightly, as though he were about to speak. Then he seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth again. He lowered his webbed hands, releasing the prisoner’s remains from the dazzling mesh. The pile of gore slapped down onto the stone floor, splattering the sorcerer with blood and viscera.

  There was a faint glow of vestigial light leaking from the sorcerer’s fingers, but the rest of the room was now almost totally dark.

  “Now, Énka,” said Sigvald, tightening his grip on Víga-Barói’s throat. “I want you to perform another spell for me.”

  “Sire?” gurgled the strange creature, spitting blood from its mouth.

  “I want you to strip all trace of sensation from Víga-Barói’s body.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the sorcerer, clambering out from beneath the pile of limbs and organs and stepping over to the prince’s side.

  Sigvald saw by the growing look of terror in Víga-Barói’s eyes that he did understand, “I mean that I want you to make his body utterly numb,” he said, looking down at the sorcerer. “I want you to leave him unable to ever feel another physical sensation. So that even if he were to put his hand into a roaring fire, he would feel no pain at all.”

  “Ah, I see,” replied the fish man. As he nodded his head, light rippled along his pink scales. “That can be easily done.” He closed his eyes and after a few seconds the light around his webbed fingers began to grow brighter.

  “Wait!” cried Víga-Barói, twisting in Sigvald’s grip and attempting to free himself. “What are you doing, prince?” His usually soft tones rose into a high-pitched wail. “I beg you! Don’t do this to me! After all these years! After everything I’ve done for you!”

  “After everything you’ve done for me?” snarled Sigvald, pressing his face close to Víga-Barói’s. “I’ve allowed you to indulge your every whim for nearly three centuries, you spineless worm. And now, when I ask you to perform one simple task in return, you can’t even give me this tiniest bit of help.” He shook his head in disgust. “Let’s see how you enjoy a little disappointment of your own.”

  “Step aside, prince,” said Énka, opening his bulging eyes and fixing one of them on Víga-Barói. “The spell is ready.”

  “Wait!” screamed the knight. “There was something! He did tell me something that could help. Tell Énka to stop!”

  Sigvald revealed his perfect teeth in a broad grin and held up a hand to the sorcerer. “In that case, you may leave, Énka,” he said, lowering Víga-Barói to the floor and allowing him to collapse into a crumpled, whimpering heap. “My friend and I have private matters to discuss.”

  As Sigvald strode out into his throne room, he was once more clad in his gleaming gold armour. In addition, he now had a circular, mirrored shield strapped to his arm and a dazzling white cloak trailing from his shoulders. As he stepped up onto the raised dais at the end of the long chamber, he lifted his sword to the assembled throng and nodded.

  “Sigvald the Magnificent,” cried Víga-Barói from the foot of the steps, lifting his own sword in reply.

  “Sigvald the Magnificent,” cried the prince’s army, with such force that the sound reverberated around the vaulted ceiling, rising to a volume that seemed too great to have come from only a thousand throats.

  Baron Schüler felt a rush of panic as he looked up from his place in the front row. The prince had replaced his habitual grin with a stern, regal expression that filled the baron with awe. What am I doing, he thought? How could I send him into danger? Schüler knew that only an opponent like Mord Huk would have any chance of ending Sigvald’s reign, but suddenly the idea of a dead Sigvald horrified him. What kind of monster was he, to wish the death of such a being? What could be worth such a crime? Then another two figures followed Sigvald onto the dais and Schüler had his answer. Led by the repulsive figure of Ansgallür the Famished came Princess Freydís. She had hidden her flawless skin behind a dress of tight, purple silk and her face was veiled, but Schüler still groaned at the sight of her. He felt a sharp, physical pain in his chest as she turned her head briefly in his direction. His pulse began to thump in his ears and his muscles trembled with the effort of staying still. “Forgive me, Sigvald,” he whispered, feeling the initial on his chest begin to throb.

  “The Decadent Host,” cried Sigvald. “My beautiful children!” He kept his sword aloft as he surveyed the odd assortment of creatures arrayed before him. Knights clad in baroque, purple armour stood side by side with jet-eyed women, whose alabaster limbs ended in cruel, serrated talons. Looming behind them were pink, hairless horses, whose heads were shrouded in nests of writhing tentacles and whose tails arched up into the venomous spikes o
f scorpions. Above this forest of insectoid limbs and pulsing flesh, another collection of creatures fluttered and swooped around the pillars of the throne room. Some were no bigger than bats, but others were the size of men, and all of them had vibrant, purple skin, black leathery wings, and the leering faces of gargoyles. At the sound of Sigvald’s praise, the creatures raised their voices again in an ecstatic, wordless scream.

  The deafening cry was even louder than the first, and Sigvald finally allowed himself to smile. “We have idled long enough,” he cried, rushing to the edge of the dais, as though he were about to dive amongst his adoring followers. Instead of leaping, however, he waved his sword at them in a decorous flourish and began to laugh. “Between us we have created an idyll the like of which the world has never seen. Whole nations of men have come and gone, never dreaming that such pleasures were possible.” His face flushed with colour and he rushed across the dais, leaning out towards his army as he warmed to his theme. “No one has experienced the things we have. No one has done the things we have.” As he grew more impassioned, his face began to turn purple and he stumbled to a halt, shaking his head violently from side to side.

  The crowd fell silent as Sigvald seemed to be consumed by some kind of fit.

  Baron Schüler frowned. As Sigvald shook his head faster, it looked for a moment that the prince was about to fall over.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the fit passed and Sigvald began rushing backwards and forwards again, a little less steady on his feet, but no less excited.

  “The world is peopled with witless, passionless cowards,” he cried, sending a trail of spit out across the figures at the foot of the dais. “None of them have the imagination to understand what we have created here.” He raised his hand and clutched at the air. “But they would take it nonetheless.”