[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Svärd shook his head in disbelief. “We can’t even find the Chaos Wastes, never mind Sigvald’s hiding place. How can you expect us—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Valdür. “There is something up ahead.”

  “Is that land?” asked Svärd, noticing a darker mass behind the fog that was quickly surrounding them.

  “I think so,” replied Valdür, shaking his head in confusion. “But it’s too small to be the Chaos Wastes. It looks like an island.”

  Sväla shoved her son out of the way so she could get a better look. “I see tall shapes,” she muttered, squinting through the fog. “Some kind of spires.” She turned to the others. “Are they really there, or are they in my mind?”

  Svärd clambered up onto the carved wolf’s head and peered across the waves at the slender silhouettes. “I see them,” he muttered, feeling a growing sense of unease.

  As the ships’ hulls scraped onto the shingle, the fog reached out in a clammy embrace, rolling over the oars and drenching the sails. The sinking sun painted the whole scene a garish golden hue and, as the daylight faded, the island became a world of shadows and gilded, clinging mist.

  Sväla dropped into the icy water and waded up onto the beach. Once there, she turned to look back at the countless hundreds of Norscans leaping from the ships and hurrying after her. This was more than just an army, it was an entire community. Brutal, shaven-headed warriors strode alongside wide-eyed children and grimacing, shivering crones. Once word of the crusade had spread, not a single member of the reunited tribe would stay behind. All of them wanted to be part of the epic adventure Sväla had promised them. She felt a rush of fear as she watched the vast crowds stumbling through the surf with their eyes fixed expectantly on her. What if she was leading them all to their deaths?

  “We’ll just stay until the fog clears,” she called out, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “It’s not safe to sail any further in this weather. It should be clear by the morning.” She turned to Valdür. “We’ll need to find somewhere to make a camp.”

  The old warrior was looking suspiciously at the slender shadows on the cliffs ahead. “We’d better find out what they are first,” he said, wiping his face dry and loosing his axe from his belt. “Wait here with your subjects, Queen Sväla,” he said with a gently mocking smile.

  She followed his gaze to the looming shadows. “Be careful,” she muttered. “I’m as blind as you are now.” She closed her eyes and frowned, then shook her head. “Since I stepped foot on the beach, even the fragments of my visions have vanished.” She crouched and scooped up a handful of cold, moist sand. “It’s as if there’s another force at work on this island; one that has come between Völtar and me. I think it’s this place that has been confusing me all day and now we’re here, everything is dark.”

  Valdür nodded, dropping his smile as he saw how anxious Sväla was. “Don’t worry,” he said, patting the head of his axe. “I’ve managed to survive this long without magic visions to guide me.”

  “Svärd,” he snapped, waving the sullen young lad over. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  “It looks like a city,” said Svärd, running his hand over the crumbling remains of a wall.

  Valdür studied the shadowy ruins that surrounded them. “They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen.” The ancient stones had mostly vanished beneath clumps of gorse and crooked, wind-blasted trees, but there was no disguising the hand of an architect. Every few yards there was a fragment of wall or the remains of a fallen arch. “Look at this,” he said, stooping to run his finger over the ground. Me was standing on a beautiful mosaic of ceramic tiles, portraying a scaled, serpentine creature with a crested head.

  “It’s like some kind of water daemon,” said Svärd, crouching next to him and clearing away sand to reveal more of the picture.

  “Look at the detail,” said Valdür, shaking his head in awe. “I’ve never seen such craftsmanship.” He scratched at part of the image and held up a glittering flake of metal. “Gold,” he said, his eyes wide with shock. “Whoever lived here painted their floors with gold.”

  Svärd looked around at the ruins in shock. “Could this be what we’ve been looking for, then? Could this be Sigvald’s home? He’s three hundred years old, remember, so it could be ruined by now.”

  Valdür shrugged as he rose to his feet and walked away. “That would be an incredible stroke of luck, but Sväla did say that she felt some kind of unnatural presence here.”

  Svärd uncovered another piece of the picture. It showed a group of smiths, hammering at a small chain. In the next image they were holding it aloft, smiling with satisfaction as rays of light shone from the metal. They obviously revered their creation as a source of great power. Something about the image intrigued Svärd and he stayed crouched on the floor as Valdür walked further along the path.

  As the other warriors filed out of the darkness towards him, he stood up and tapped the axe in his belt. “Keep your weapons ready,” he whispered. “We might not be alone.”

  They walked another mile or so inland and came across even more impressive ruins. Norscans considered the open sky their roof and the whole steppe their home, so they never built anything to last more than a season. To see beautiful, soaring buildings that had clearly stood for many centuries filled them with wonder. The slender spires they had seen from the ship were the remains of narrow, marble towers. Most of the exteriors had crumbled away to reveal worn, spiral steps within, but they were still magnificent pieces of architecture, soaring way above the gnarled trees and glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

  “No mortal hands could have crafted such a thing,” said Valdür, peering up at one of the towers. The whole edifice was covered with delicate reliefs. The carvings showed slender, androgynous warriors riding to war in chariots pulled by huge, white, feline beasts.

  “Whoever they were, they seem to be long gone,” replied Svärd, stepping under a shattered archway into a wide, open space. Weeds had sprouted from beneath the broad flagstones, but it was clear that the area had once been some kind of courtyard. “Maybe we could camp here?” He waved at the ruined walls that surrounded the moonlit square. “It’s quite well defended. We could position scouts on the walls.”

  Valdür nodded as he looked around the courtyard. “Seems as safe as anywhere.” He frowned. “It’s so quiet.” He waved his axe at the other tribesmen as they entered the square, signalling for them to stop speaking. “Listen,” he whispered. “There isn’t even any birdsong.”

  Svärd shrugged. “It’s dark.”

  Valdür shook his head. “The sun has only just gone down. I’d expect to hear something. Even if it was only—”

  He fell silent as he noticed something.

  On the far side of the courtyard, another archway led into the remains of a large chamber. The ceiling of the room was long gone, allowing the moonlight to pick out the slender figure of a man, watching them from just inside the doorway.

  The Norscans lifted their axes.

  “Who goes there?” shouted Valdür, dropping into a crouch and signalling for the others to do the same.

  The stranger gave no reply as he started to walk towards them.

  Valdür and Svärd looked at each other in surprise as the man crossed the courtyard. He was a scrawny, bedraggled wreck, with no clothes on and a filthy mane of hair. The patchy beard that hung down over his bony chest was flecked with grey and his cheeks were hollow with age. As he stepped closer, they realised that his hair was knotted with seaweed and his atrophied limbs were speckled with barnacles and plump, shiny leeches. His feet slapped across the flagstones with a moist popping sound and his mottled, bluish skin was so slack it seemed about to slide from his bones. He looked like a corpse that had dredged itself from the seabed to greet them.

  The Norscans grimaced and backed away.

  “Stop there,” cried Valdür, raising his axe as the man came within a few feet of him.

  The man did as he was ordered and l
ooked back at them with a puzzled expression. Then he looked down at his rotten, grey flesh and frowned. He noticed the molluscs and insects that were hurrying over his skin and grimaced. “Who am I?” he belched, in a thick, watery voice.

  Valdür looked at Svärd in confusion and then edged a little closer to the frail old man. “We’re lost,” he said, grimacing at the smell of the man’s decaying body. “What’s the name of this island?”

  “I can’t remember,” he gurgled. “I was asleep. Then I heard your voices.” The old man looked around at the ruins, obviously distressed. “What’s happened to the walls?”

  Valdür raised his eyebrows at Svärd, clearly thinking the man was insane. “I think the walls must have fallen down a long time ago, old man. We’ve got to spend the night on the island and we thought this would be as safe a place as any.” He paused, unsure what else to say.

  The stranger frowned at Valdür for a while, then nodded and turned away. He slapped away from them, heading out through the archway and disappearing into the shadows.

  “Is it safe to just let him go?” whispered Svärd.

  Valdür shook his head and signalled for two of his men to follow the stranger. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. “Let me know where he goes.”

  * * *

  Big as it was, the courtyard could not contain the hordes of Norscans who swarmed into it. They spilled out onto the sandy hillsides and muttered oaths as they spread their animal skins over the damp grass. As they dropped wearily to the ground, a few of them attempted to lift the dismal atmosphere with songs and laughter, but the tunes sounded muffled and odd in the thick fog and the laughter echoed strangely, as though the ruins were mocking them. In the centre of the courtyard, Sväla and the elders huddled around a spitting, smoky fire and discussed their next move.

  “But this island may be just off the coast,” said Sväla looking at the flickering faces that surrounded her. “Even if the fog doesn’t lift tomorrow, we must head north. We’ve come too far to head back now and our supplies will only last for so long.”

  Halldórr the Black, the swarthy Kurgan chieftain, leant forward. The long, jet-black hair that gave him his name fell over his face, but it could not hide his furious expression. “You told us Völtar would lead us to Sigvald,” he snarled, waving at the crumbling ruins that surrounded them, “and we’ve ended up here.” He spat into the flames. “I think we should stay put. When the fog clears we should head south, back to our homes.” He let out a bitter laugh. “If we can work out which way south is.”

  On the opposite side of the fire was the hulking, lupine silhouette of Ungaur. He nodded slowly at Halldórr’s words. “I agree. It would be madness to set sail in this fog. Who knows where we could end up.” His black needles glittered in the firelight. “Your bravery is without question, Sväla, and it does great honour to the memory of your husband, but it may be time to think again.” He nodded at the slumbering shapes that surrounded them and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You still have the will of the people behind you, but as you said yourself, our supplies are starting to dwindle. Things may change when people’s bellies start to ache.” He levelled one of his long nails at Sväla. “And make no mistake: it’s you they’ll hold responsible.”

  Valdür the Old shook his head and laughed. “You’ve been against this from the start.”

  “Maybe he was right,” snapped Halldórr, fixing his brooding eyes on Valdür. “Look where her visions have got us.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And now she doesn’t even have them anymore.”

  Rurik Iron Fist shifted uncomfortably on his haunches as he listened to the conversation. His red war paint gleamed in the firelight and as he leant towards Sväla he looked more daemon than man. “Maybe they’re right,” he said, with sadness in his voice. “I know the power of Völtar is in you, but without his eyes to lead us, how can we continue? At least here we have shelter and maybe even some food, but if we set sail again, how would we ever find our way through the fog? We could sail in circles until we starve.”

  A tiny figure leant closer to the fire. It was the ancient witch, Ürsüla, and as the flames glinted in her piercing eyes, she grinned at the rest of the elders. “There’s something here that has blocked your visions, Sväla: something that has come between you and your spirit guide. It might be worth finding out what kind of power could block the will of Völtar.”

  Sväla frowned at the old woman and was about to reply when two tribesmen loomed out of the darkness.

  “He’s coming back,” gasped one of them, trying to catch his breath. “The drowned man.”

  Ungaur leapt to his feet. “Let me see this wretched creature,” he said, clutching his staff in both hands.

  The others rose to their feet and peered into the shadows.

  “Where is he?” snapped Valdür, stepping over to his men, but before they could reply the old warrior had his answer.

  Cries erupted from the far side of the courtyard as dozens of the Norscans woke up to see what looked like a naked corpse walking by.

  The cadaverous old man stumbled past them oblivious, heading straight for the fire.

  Valdür and the other elders made a protective line in front of Sväla as he approached.

  “He’s a daemon,” cried Ungaur, causing even more of the surrounding Norscans to wake up. He drew his sacrificial knife and looked around at the others. “We must silence him before he corrupts our minds with his magic.”

  Within seconds the camp became a panicked mob as people scrambled to their feet and backed away from the willowy stranger.

  “It’s the island of Ásin,” announced the man, in his strange, liquid gargle.

  “What did he say?” asked Sväla, turning to her son.

  Svärd grimaced, causing rows of wolves’ teeth to blossom from his cheeks. “We asked him the name of the island and he couldn’t remember. It’s obviously come back to him.”

  “Then he knows where we are?”

  Svärd nodded, still grimacing.

  “Wait,” cried Sväla as Ungaur strode towards the old man with his knife drawn. “He could help us.”

  Ungaur cursed under his breath as the Norscans at his side lowered their weapons. “You would seek help from this?” he asked, waving his knife at the stranger. “Have we sunk so low?”

  Sväla ignored the shaman as the sodden old man approached. “We’re looking for the Chaos Wastes,” she said, trying to hide her revulsion as the firelight revealed the man’s countless, scuttling passengers. “Would you be able to guide us?”

  The man massaged his waterlogged face, causing a flood of tiny crustaceans to tumble from his sagging eye sockets. “Guide you?” he asked, revealing his gums in a toothless smile. “Of course, Olandír would be delighted to help you.” He waved at the thick fog that still surrounded them. “I’ve been here for a long time, alone. I would dearly love some company.”

  Svärd and Valdür looked at each in surprise. The tall old man had lost his vague, distracted air and now seemed quite sure of himself. The flaccid grin remained on his face as he waited for Sväla and the other elders to respond. His eyes were the blank, blue-white orbs of a corpse, but they twitched from side to side with obvious intelligence as he surveyed the gathering.

  “Are you here alone, Olandír?” asked Ungaur, scowling at the man and reluctantly lowering his knife.

  “May I?” asked Olandír, ignoring the shaman’s question and indicating that he would like to sit beside the fire.

  Sväla nodded her agreement and indicated that the others should sit too.

  “Please,” she called out to the anxious sea of faces that surrounded them. “Do not be alarmed. The man called Olandír is here to help us. Return to your beds. Your chieftains will watch over you while you sleep.”

  No one seemed entirely convinced by Sväla’s words, but most of them shuffled back into the fog, eyeing the stranger suspiciously as they left. Only a few of the young warriors remained, at Valdür’s silent reque
st.

  “You say you live here alone?” asked Sväla, as the other Norscans stared at the strange man.

  He nodded, still wearing his grotesque grin.

  Svärd felt his stomach turn. This close up, it was obvious that the man was even stranger than he had at first thought. It was not just the rotten state of his flesh that was odd: his limbs were far too long and spindly and his eyes were a strange, almond shape that reminded Svärd of the figures in the mosaics. As the others questioned the stranger, Svärd noticed something glinting on his bony ankle. He leant closer and saw that there was a silver clasp trapped amongst the weeds and shells that covered his skin. It was so fine that it was almost invisible and he marvelled at the workmanship. It seemed strange to him that a man with no clothes would wear such intricate jewellery, but before he could think any further about it, an angry voice dragged him back to the conversation.

  “How could he not remember how he got here?” asked Ungaur, looking around the fire in disbelief. “He’s lying.”

  “I assure you,” said Olandír, choking slightly on the fluid in his throat. “My memory is coming back to me, even as we speak.” He looked anxiously at Sväla, obviously sensing that she was the leader of the group. “I’m sure that by tomorrow, I will be able to remember more.” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through the sandy mass of weeds and hair that covered his head. “There are maps here somewhere,” he said, opening his blank eyes and flashing his gums again. “If you let me bed down with you here tonight, I’m sure I could lead you to them in the morning.”

  Ungaur threw his hands up in despair and turned to the other elders. “How can we sit here listening to this? He’ll slit our throats while we sleep.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” said Olandír, shaking his head in horror at the shaman’s words. He turned to Sväla with a pleading note in his voice. “Give me until the morning, I beg you, and I promise I’ll help. I was asleep when you arrived.” He shook his head, scattering water and insects across the ground. “I think I must have been ill, but now my thoughts are getting clearer. I’m sure I can help you reach your destination.” He looked anxiously at Sväla. “If you could just do me one small favour.”