[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

The army let out another roar, but his time it was a cry of furious denial.

  “Yes, my children, they would take it from us. Even now, Mord Huk and his meat-headed butchers are marching brazenly across our borders, edging ever closer to the Gilded Palace. They want to crush this beautiful paradise beneath their clumsy hooves.”

  The crowd roared again and several of the creatures began to thrash their claws and wings against the soldiers that surrounded them, itching to tear something apart.

  From the bottom of the dais, Víga-Barói singled out Baron Schüler in the front row. His grey eyes burned with hatred as he glared at the bearded knight. As the crowd’s frenzy grew in volume and violence, Víga-Barói remained stock-still. His only movement was to fold his hands firmly across his plum-coloured armour. He clutched his chest so tightly that some of the hooks embedded in his skin punctured the palms of his hands, and thin trails of blood began to trickle around the serpentine designs of his cuirass.

  Baron Schüler was as oblivious to the knight’s glare as he was to everything else. As Sigvald continued his impassioned speech, the baron kept his gaze fixed on the princess. He cursed under his breath as Freydís strained to free herself from the chain that linked her to her guardian.

  “We must put aside our games and stop this abomination,” cried Sigvald, shaking his sword again. “Although it’s beneath us, we must ride out and defeat them. I will not abandon you to such joyless dullards. Not after all that we have achieved together.” He waved to a tall figure, swaying in the shadows at the back of the hall. Oddrún was clutching the brass casket that contained Doctor Schliemann’s head. “My advisors have shown me a way to enter the home of these slavering dogs. I’ve learnt the secrets of Ör. Are you ready to sate your desires in the citadel of the Blood God? My children, will you join me?”

  As one, Sigvald’s warriors raised their weapons aloft, screaming in ecstasy and howling in tribute to their glorious prince.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sväla waited quietly as the chieftains filed into the mead hall and joined the circle of tribesmen that surrounded her. The air was heavy with fumes, drifting up from dozens of ceremonial urns and collecting beneath the low, thatched roof in thick, rolling clouds. The whole scene had a surreal, insubstantial air that reminded Sväla of her visions. The chieftains were bitter enemies and to see them gathered together was like a strange dream. All three of them were the proud survivors of countless wars and the rulers of great Norscan tribes, but as they sat cross-legged on the dusty ground, not one of them would meet her eye. She took no pleasure in humbling such fierce warriors, but their fear was her only chance.

  Rurik Iron Fist, Halldórr the Black and Sturll the Hewer had all been her childhood playmates, but as the curse worsened, the Fallen had fragmented into ever smaller and ever weaker factions. It was nearly three decades since the three men had met in peace and their discomfort was clear. Their hulking, muscled shoulders trembled with suppressed violence as they fixed their gaze on the ground in front of them.

  Sväla looked around at the rest of the circle. On her left was Valdür the Old, with his crumpled leathery smile and his flash of silver hair. To her right was her scowling son, Svärd, still so young, but already twisted by bitterness and loss. Dotted around the circle she saw dozens of other familiar faces. The elders who had blessed her marriage and anointed Hauk as Chieftain of the Fallen; even the old witch, Ürsüla, hunched and smirking at the chieftains from beneath her rags and fetishes. Only one of the faces was undaunted as Sväla met his eye. Ungaur the Blessed watched her with a forced, fatherly smile that could not mask his fury. His black needle-teeth glittered slightly behind his thick beard as he stared at her from within the jaws of his wolf skin.

  Once the chieftains had taken their place, she began to speak. The hall was utterly silent and she had no need to raise her voice. “Brothers of the Steppe,” she said. “We are cursed.”

  Ungaur ground his staff in the dirt and opened his mouth to speak, but a stern glance from Sväla silenced him.

  “No one here can deny it,” she continued. “All of us have tried to appease Völtar in our own way. Some with blood rites, and some by turning their backs on their kin and their ancestors.”

  At this, Rurik shook his red Mohican from side to side in mute denial, but he did not interrupt Sväla’s speech.

  “Whatever route we have taken, all of us have failed,” she said. “The curse remains. Every year we lose more of our hunting grounds to our enemies and every year our children dwindle in number.” She looked down at the two rings on her finger. “Despite all the brave sacrifices that have been made, we’re dying. After a few more winters like the last, we won’t just be fallen, we’ll be forgotten.”

  Sväla paused and looked round the circle again. Still, with the exception of Ungaur, none of the tribesmen would meet her eye. She nodded as she remembered how they had been cowed. Each of the great chieftains had defied her calls to reunite the Fallen. None of them had even considered her a worthy opponent. But her visions had led her to victory after incredible victory and now they were terrified. She knew what they believed: that Völtar must have taken possession of her flesh, driving the old Sväla out and turning her body into a vessel for His immortal power. She was no longer even sure they were wrong.

  She waited a moment to let her words sink in, and then continued, looking directly at the three chieftains. “I have brought some of you to your knees. I know you must despise me, but see beyond your pride. I didn’t fight you out of bloodlust or avarice.” She leant forward and finally raised her voice above a whisper. “Völtar has spoken to me!” she cried, causing her audience to flinch in shock. “The Wolf has shown me the way to salvation.”

  At this, a few of the tribesmen and chieftains looked up. There was a gleam of hope in their eyes as they finally dared to study the wiry, tattooed woman who had summoned them.

  “We’re not to blame for this,” she said, casting her gaze around the circle. “It was never us who earned Völtar’s wrath.”

  “Lies,” spat Ungaur, unable to control himself any longer. “Völtar has judged us and found us wanting. If you carry on with this—”

  “Silence!” cried Rurik, levelling his mutated arm at the shaman. Since Sväla had spared his life, the chieftain had worn the haunted, guilty expression of a trespasser, but he had also watched over his enemy’s wife with a fierce, unblinking determination.

  Ungaur gasped, unused to being addressed in such a way. He opened his mouth to reply, but noticed that the whole circle had turned to face him. All of them were glaring with such passion that he thought they might attack him. One of the chieftains, the bear-like brute named Sturll the Hewer, had even drawn a pair of meat cleavers from behind his back, and looked as though he were about to leap across the circle and bury them in Ungaur’s face. The shaman shrugged and revealed his black spines in an unconvincing smile.

  Sväla nodded at Rurik and continued. “I’ve communed with the Wolf and looked deep into our past. I’ve seen the true source of the curse.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Nearly twelve generations ago, when the Fallen were known by other names, a child was born to this tribe; a child by the name of Sigvald.”

  Silence followed her words and the members of the circle looked at each other in confusion. Only one of them showed any sign of recognition. Ungaur’s mouth snapped shut, hiding his black fangs, and he lowered his gaze to the ground, suddenly unwilling to meet the others’ gaze.

  Sväla noted his reaction before continuing. “Sigvald was the son of a brave chieftain, and he quickly grew in strength and wisdom, but dark rumours followed him. He fought with a skill that seemed almost unnatural, but he had a strange air about him that made the other tribesmen uncomfortable. His joy in the suffering of others was unseemly and it was not his only vice. He craved any form of experience, no matter how unnatural, and it soon became clear that his only interest was in seeking pleasure. That alone would not have been so bad, but Sigv
ald’s perversion did not end there: he was disloyal to Völtar the Wolf. He worshipped at the altar of forbidden gods.” She paused and drew a symbol on the ground with her knife. It was a circle that was shielded by a half circle with a line jutting out from its centre that ended in another, smaller arc. “Do any of you recognise this?”

  The tribesmen nodded their heads and a few of them muttered prayers under their breath. To display the mark of another god in the house of Völtar was unheard of and Ungaur’s eyes widened in horror as he looked up from the ground.

  “The mark of Slaanesh and his Decadent Host,” continued Sväla. “The symbol of those who revel in perversion and forbidden worship.” She shook her head. “Sigvald turned his back on Völtar the Wolf and gave his soul to the Prince of Desire.”

  A chorus of muttered oaths filled the gloomy mead hall.

  “Then it was this Sigvald who doomed us?” asked one of the elders, looking around for confirmation.

  “But if he lived all those years ago, why are we still paying for his crimes now?” asked Sturll the Hewer, turning his head vaguely in Sväla’s direction. “Surely the debt was paid when he died?”

  Sväla looked over at Ungaur, who was still staring at the icon. “Sigvald did not age,” she said. “His strange desires amused his new master. The Dark Prince sent an envoy to offer him a bargain. In exchange for his complete devotion, Slaanesh’s envoy offered Sigvald an eternity in which to pursue his unspeakable lusts. As long as he dedicated himself to the seeking of pleasure, in all its forms, Sigvald would never age.” She raised her voice. “Will never age. And as long as he lives, we will carry the weight of his shame.”

  “How can you know all this?” cried Ungaur, looking up at her with an ashen face. “Who told you about Sigvald?” He leapt to his feet and jabbed a finger at his own chest. “Only I have heard this tale. Only I know about Sigvald’s bargain.” He spat on the ground and glared at Sväla. “And I would certainly never have confided in such a devious trickster as you.”

  Sväla’s shoulders slumped and she looked down at the symbol she had drawn in the dirt. “So it’s true,” she muttered.

  “What?” snapped the shaman.

  Sväla looked around the circle. “I only needed one final proof,” she said, looking almost as afraid as the others. She waved dismissively at Ungaur’s huge, trembling frame. “Our shaman has led us to the very brink of extinction, but his learning is unquestionable. I suspected he knew about this ancient sacrilege, but I needed to hear it from his own lips before I could really believe it. Now there can be no doubt.” She stood up and wiped away the icon with her foot. “We can never be free of the curse while Sigvald lives.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Black waves churned beneath a sky the colour of slate. Svärd pulled his furs a little tighter as he looked out at the bleak scene. This was his first voyage and, to his shame, his stomach was rolling horribly. As the deck of the longship rocked beneath him, he looked back at the square sails and curved prows of the other boats in an attempt to calm his guts, but as he watched the fleet rearing and plunging through the sea it only made him feel worse. He knew he would be being watched and cursed his weak stomach for making him look such a fool. In the weeks since his mother united the tribes, his own name had become famous: he was the son of Sväla the Witch. He was the son of the woman who had found the source of their shame and roused the whole steppe to war. The son of a prophet who had begun a crusade to match anything in the sagas. And now he couldn’t even stand up straight. “By Völtar,” he said, leaning out over the gunnel and vomiting into a cloud of sea spray. He slumped against the rune-carved oak with a groan, letting the icy spray wash his face clean.

  “There’s no need to feel ashamed,” said a kind voice from behind him.

  Svärd stood up and wiped has face, jangling the rings embedded in his lips. Then he turned around, already sure who was addressing him.

  Ungaur made an impressive figure. Even by the standards of a Norscan he was huge, and the sodden mass of wolf skin over his shoulders only added to the impression of bestial power. He flashed his black needles in a smile. “Even your father would have felt sick at a sight like this.” He waved at the vast fleet. “None of us have ever seen such a gathering of the tribes. Even with my knowledge I have never heard of such a huge army.” He placed his hands on the ledge and looked out at the forest of bulging sails. “Sväla’s crusade they’re calling it.” He shook his head. “She’s dragged a whole nation from their homes. And for what?”

  Svärd stuck out his jaw and glared at the shaman. “They left because they believe in her.” He felt his nausea fading as his anger grew. “She betrayed my father to his death and now she consorts with his murderer, but no one even cares. I should be chieftain by now, but she’s confused everyone with her so-called visions. Everyone thinks this crusade is the only thing that can end the curse.” He twisted his voice into a whining, sycophantic mockery of her followers. “Völtar the Wolf has shown her the way. Her visions will lead us to wonderful, glorious victory.”

  Ungaur ran a hand over his long, red beard and nodded. “She has visions, it’s true, but their origin is another matter.”

  Svärd shook his head in disgust. “You’re just jealous of her power.” He waved at the fleet that surrounded them. “No one has ever heard of such a crusade. She has united the Fallen in a way you never managed to. Sagas will be sung in her name, long after you have been forgotten, despite everything she has done.”

  Ungaur shrugged. “I hope you’re right. After all, there’s nothing we can do to stop her now. I wonder though, if it’s really Völtar’s voice she can hear. She’s not the first child of the steppe to be called north, into the Wastes, and she wouldn’t be the first to be misled. More than one god watches us from the roof of the world and not all of them have our best interests at heart. Maybe Sigvald thought he was answering a summons from the Wolf. Perhaps it was only once he had lost his mind that he realised the true nature of his master.”

  “She hears the voice of the Wolf,” said Svärd. There was bitterness in his voice but no doubt. “She couldn’t have led us this far otherwise.”

  “It’s possible.” Ungaur looked at the curved prow of the ship—a huge piece of oak, carved in the shape of a snarling wolfs head—and then at the growing darkness ahead of them. “And yet we are so hopelessly lost.” He shook his head and frowned. “If the Wolf really wishes to lead your mother to victory, it seems strange that he has brought us out into the middle of the sea and then fallen quiet.”

  Svärd sneered in reply, but could think of nothing to say. Ungaur was right: they were utterly lost.

  “I understand your anger,” said Ungaur, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Your father never had any strange ideas like this. He wouldn’t have led us on such a fool’s errand. The Wastes are full of monsters you could never even dream of. What if her visions don’t come from Völtar? Whose call are we answering?”

  Svärd shrugged. “You’re just afraid of what will happen once Sigvald is dead. Without the curse to bludgeon people with, you’ll lose what little power you have left.” He gave the shaman a brusque nod and staggered off across the deck towards the prow. His head was pounding with suppressed rage. Ungaur’s motivations were all too clear, but his logic could not be denied. Why would Völtar lead them into the middle of the ocean and then abandon them? Why would he choose a lying, faithless murderess like his mother as a prophet? They had been lost for several days now and their supplies were already running low. Valdür the Old was a veteran of many voyages, but even he seemed at a loss. As they approached the Chaos Wastes, the stars had become confused, abandoning their usual constellations and forming strange new shapes, making navigation almost impossible. He looked around for the old warrior and saw him sitting next to the prow.

  “Any luck?” he asked, crouching next to him.

  Valdür turned towards him with a grimace. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks, old man,”
replied Svärd. “Coming from such a delicate flower as you that really hurts.”

  Valdür grinned and wiped the sea spray from his face. “What do you think that is?” he asked, waving to the horizon.

  Svärd squinted through the gloom. “Is it land?” he gasped, seeing a faint, grey line ahead of them.

  Valdür shook his head. “I thought so at first, but now I’m not so sure. There’s something odd about it. It only appeared in the last few minutes, but it seems to be rushing towards us.”

  The two Norscans soon had their answer. As they watched the line grow, rolling and shifting across the tumbling waves, it quickly became apparent that they were sailing towards a wall of fog.

  “This is in none of my visions,” said Sväla, approaching the prow. She shook her head. “Since we set sail, everything has become confused. I see tiny glimpses, but nothing more.”

  “Tiny glimpses of what?” growled Svärd, recalling Ungaur’s words.

  Sväla frowned and hugged her wiry frame, looking through her son as though he were a ghost. “I see a golden city, floating in the sky, filled with long, empty halls. I think that’s our goal.” She grimaced. “I see the snarling head of a fierce dog, on the shoulders of a man. I see a veiled woman, weeping in a grand palace. I see a—”

  “Do you see any fog?” interrupted Svärd, with a sneer.

  Sväla opened her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she admitted, watching the thick tendrils crawling over the deck. “I can see nothing clearly anymore, but there was never anything in my thoughts about being lost in the fog.” She sensed Svärd’s furious expression boring into her, but did not meet his gaze. “We’re definitely doing the right thing. Sigvald has abjured his faith in Völtar the Wolf and now he’s hiding somewhere in the Chaos Wastes, indulging his every perverse desire while we suffer Völtar’s wrath. The only way we’ll ever be free of the curse is to hunt him down and put an end to his sacrilege.”