[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

Blood-red lights glimmered on the walls of the distant citadel as Mord Huk’s men dragged another huge gun into view. Even at this distance it was clear that the cannon was as much animal as machine. Its barrel pulsed and twitched with life and as it was wheeled into place it whined and hissed as though it were in pain. There was a loud crack and it sprayed energy in all directions, eviscerating the stunted figures huddled around it and launching another lurid blast down on the advancing army.

  As the light washed over them, Sigvald’s warriors howled with delight. Rather than destroying them, this gout rippled their flesh into strange, revolting new shapes, leaving them twitching and giggling as they unfurled their new forms across the mounds of dead.

  Víga-Barói leapt over the piles of tentacles and undulating flesh and bellowed a wordless war cry, rallying the army once more. The depraved hordes charged after him, undaunted by the carnage. The knight lifted the visor of his helmet and looked back over his shoulder. He nodded at a gaunt, bearded man a few feet away, stumbling through the mass of shivering limbs and liquid faces. “You’re a man after my own heart, Baron Schüler,” he cried.

  The baron looked back at him with a dazed expression. He was clad in the ornate purple and gold armour Sigvald had given him and, as he blundered through the chaos, he held a mirrored shield over his head that was a perfect replica of the prince’s, but every inch of him was drenched in blood and parts of his armour had rippled into strange, awkward new shapes where the blasts of light had glanced across it. “What?” he croaked.

  Víga-Barói waved his sword at the nightmarish abattoir that surrounded them. “I have to admit, I told Prince Sigvald that you were mad for suggesting this.” He gasped as a horned creature barged past him, jolting his fractured ribs. Then he sighed with pleasure. “But I’m beginning to believe you might be some kind of genius.”

  Schüler grimaced as a blossom of writhing intestines erupted in front of him. He lashed out with his sword, cursing his own name as he hacked the shuddering entrails to the ground and continued racing after the sneering knight. All around him were the men he had led north from the Empire. They had left their homes, at his command, only a year earlier, and now he could not bear to look at what had become of them. As he had whiled away the weeks in Sigvald’s urbane company, his men had been strapped to slabs and hacked into grotesque new shapes in Víga-Barói’s surgeries. Even with his gaze fixed firmly on the citadel he knew he would never reach, Schüler could not help catching glimpses of his men’s blanched, elongated faces or their leathery, razor-sharp appendages. He ran faster, trying to leave them behind, but they hurried dutifully after him, eager to march by his side into the mayhem ahead.

  The baron’s heart pounded as he slipped and scrambled after Víga-Barói and he began to moan in despair, tormented by the fact that they were all going to die, apart from the one person he wanted to see dead.

  Sigvald was crawling slowly across the side of a mountain. “Don’t move,” he hissed to the row of knights waiting a few feet back down the slope. The prince held his breath as he edged carefully towards the precipice, jutting out of the snow, halfway up the slope. He looked up at the cloudy sky and then waited in silence, crouching patiently on the exposed lump of rock. After a few minutes, the clouds rolled back from the moon and a cold light washed over the mountainside, revealing a flash of green in front of the prince. Sigvald leant forward until his face was just inches from the stone. Then his handsome face lit up in a broad grin. “Perfect,” he muttered, reaching out and nudging a small emerald shape onto one of his fingers and holding it up before him. It was a tiny iridescent beetle, with a human eye embedded in its back that stared defiantly at the prince. “Look at this!” Sigvald hissed, turning to his men, but his breath dislodged the beetle and it fluttered away from his hand with a whirring sound.

  Sigvald’s grin froze before slowly turning into a grimace. He massaged his forehead so vigorously it seemed as though he were trying to remove his own scalp. Then he stood up and turned into the icy breeze whistling across the face of the mountain. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he waved at a row of wagons behind the knights. “Unfasten them,” he snapped, looking out into the storm.

  Below them, at the foot of the mountain, was a huge red lake. The colour jarred horribly against the virgin white snow, but Sigvald was not interested in the broad expanse of blood, he peered instead at the slender black bridge leading to a citadel in its centre, and the crowds of figures struggling to cross it.

  “Oddrún,” he called out. “Bring me the head.”

  As the knights began to uncover the large, circular wagons, the teetering, hooded figure of the chancellor lurched past them, with the gold casket wedged under his arm. It took him a few minutes to reach Sigvald’s side and when he finally reached the ledge, a stream of spluttering coughs came from within his hood. Once he had caught his breath he looked down at the carnage on the bridge and shook his head. “You’re going to kill every last one of them,” he muttered. “They love you more than anything and this is how you repay them.”

  Sigvald’s eyes flashed with excitement as he gripped Oddrún’s shoulder. “Remember the brass skull!” he said, with a tremble in his voice. “A skull from the throne of a god.” He tipped back his head and groaned at the thought of it. “Can you imagine what that will feel like?”

  Oddrún flinched away from Sigvald’s grip. “Even if it exists, which I doubt, you’ll never lay your hands on it.” He waved at the impossibly tall citadel at the end of the bridge, and the trails of vivid light pouring down from it. “None of them will ever reach that tower. You’re sacrificing everything, and for what?”

  “Sacrifice?” Sigvald shook his head, genuinely confused. “Where is there any sacrifice?” He pointed down at the bizarre tide of mutated flesh and fantastical creatures. “Have you ever seen anything like that? Has anyone? Who could ever dream of expiring in such a beautiful carnival?” He took the casket from Oddrún. “Anyway, you’re wrong. I haven’t come here just to watch them die. In a few minutes everything will look very different.” He flicked open the casket and revealed the head of Doctor Schliemann. Several weeks in a dark box had already transformed the doctor’s head. His skin was grey and hung down from his skull in loose, clammy folds, and his eyes carried no trace of life.

  “Tell me, old friend,” said Sigvald, stroking the doctor’s cheek as though he were a beloved pet, “is Víga-Barói’s theory correct? Can we attack the citadel from the air?”

  The head gave no reply for a few seconds, then the doctor’s face crumpled in pain as electricity crackled into his skull. “Yes,” he answered in croaky, desolate tones. “Mord Huk’s guns only protect him from armies that approach along the bridge, or the lake. They can’t be aimed up at the sky.”

  Sigvald grinned triumphantly up at Oddrún. “Then we can land behind them and defeat his garrison?”

  “You can land behind them,” replied the head.

  Sigvald slammed the casket shut with a nod of satisfaction and looked back down the mountainside.

  The knights had uncovered the wagons and revealed hundreds of strange chariots. Each one consisted of a circular silver frame, several feet in diameter, designed to resemble the device on Sigvald’s shield. Attached to the outer ellipse of each chariot were four huge, white eagles, with purple velvet hoods fastened securely over their heads. Fixed in the centre of each frame was an incredibly ornate cage of gossamer-fine silver, large enough to hold two men. Every inch of the vehicles was decorated with delicate spirals of filigreed silver and engraved with florid runes.

  “Come with me,” said Sigvald, waving to Oddrún as he clambered into one of the cages. As he settled into a high-backed silver chair, he grasped a pair of reins linked to the eagles. “Remove the hoods,” he cried, as Oddrún folded his long limbs into the cage beside him.

  One of the knights began uncovering the eagles’ heads. As soon as the birds’ eyes were uncovered they began beating their hu
ge wings, screeching furiously and pecking at the straps that secured them to the chariot. The knight had to work quickly to avoid being skewered by their long, curved beaks.

  Sigvald let out a manic laugh as the birds launched themselves into the air with a flurry of talons and feathers. “Follow my lead,” he cried as the silver chariot lurched from the snow, swinging wildly beneath the eagles as they attempted to free themselves from the reins. Oddrún cursed as he slipped and slammed his head against the metalwork.

  As the eagles pounded their wings in fear, all pulling in opposite directions at once, the chariot span and tumbled beneath them, just a few feet above the jagged rocks. Sigvald’s laughter grew wilder as he and Oddrún rolled around the cage. Then, just as it looked as though the whole contraption would be smashed, the prince pulled the reins and steered the eagles up into the sky.

  Sigvald’s long blond hair trailed behind him as the chariot soared up through the icy breeze. His eyes blazed with joy as he grinned at the stars. Within minutes the eagles’ pounding wings had hurled them through the clouds, enabling them to see for miles around. “Look, Oddrún!” he cried, shaking the crumpled, cursing figure at his feet. “The Gilded Palace!”

  Oddrún looked through the bars of the cage at the distant flash of gold, but his only reply was a grunt of disgust.

  Sigvald yanked the eagles in the opposite direction, sending the chariot swinging across the night sky in a great arc, flashing like a comet through the clouds. “Follow my lead!” he called again, looking down at the mountainside.

  Way below, some of the knights had managed to launch their chariots from the ground and were now flying up towards Sigvald.

  The prince steered the chariot around the frozen peaks, whooping hysterically as the eagles banked and dived. For a while he forgot all about the raging battle below as he closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the dizzying sensation of hurtling through the air. After several minutes, he realised that most of the other chariots had managed to take off and were now circling with him. Remembering his purpose, he drew his sword and thrust it through the bars of the cage, pointing it at the crimson lake below and the tower of skulls at its centre. “Silence the guns!” he cried, sending his chariot hurtling down through the clouds. “Death to the Blood God!”

  The other chariots plummeted after him, with the moonlight flashing along their silver frames, and for a brief moment it looked as though a meteor shower was falling over the Chaos Wastes.

  Sigvald’s chariot crashed onto the top of the fortress’ outer wall. The metal crumpled and splintered in a shower of sparks and feathers and Sigvald was thrown clear, clattering across the battlements, losing his sword and tumbling towards the fortress’ defenders.

  He rolled onto his feet and staggered unsteadily to a halt.

  A group of short, stocky figures stood in front of him, guarding a cannon. They wore thick, iron armour, filthy leather tabards and had long, greasy beards, plaited with bones. Their scowling faces were covered in soot and their moustaches were singed and shrivelled from the heat of the gun. As one, they drew axes and knives and charged at the dazed-looking prince.

  Sigvald’s weaving gait confused the dwarfs as they tried to land blows on his slender frame. He ran straight at them, but then lurched off to one side at the last minute, leaving them to stumble past. As they whirled around, cursing, he dealt one of them a fierce, backhanded blow to the head. As the dwarf reeled from the blow, the prince plucked the axe from his flailing hands and turned to face the others with a grin. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, with a nod of his head. Then, with shocking speed, he slammed the axe into the chest of its former owner.

  Blood sprayed from the dwarf’s armour as Sigvald drew back the axe to strike again, but before he could do so the battlements exploded in a cloud of dust, feathers and granite as another chariot smashed into the wall.

  The dwarfs backed away in confusion as dozens of the silver cages began crashing down along the outer wall of the fortress. Eagles screamed and flapped wildly through the chaos and purple-clad knights stumbled from the wreckage, drawing swords as they rushed to attack.

  Within minutes, the cannons were left unmanned as the dwarfs rushed to defend the wall.

  Víga-Barói reached up with both arms, suffocated and blind, as a thick blanket of flesh enveloped him. His hands broke free and he grunted with satisfaction as he felt cold air on his fingertips. The agony of his burning lungs was delicious, but he knew he could not betray his beloved prince; not even for such an exquisite death. He sank his fingers into the pulsing mass and hauled himself free, gasping for breath as his face burst through a layer of translucent skin. The mound of blubber he was trapped in had been a man, up until a few minutes ago, when one of the luminous cannon blasts had struck the poor wretch full-on and transformed him into a gelatinous mound of meat.

  “The guns!” cried Hazül from a few feet away, peering up at the walls from behind its gossamer shroud of lilac tendrils.

  Víga-Barói dragged the rest of his body from the quivering heap and looked down the bridge towards the fortress. The huge gates at the foot of the structure looked as impenetrable as ever, but the trails of light from above them had vanished. He wiped the blood from his armour and pulled his sword free with a moist smack. Then he dropped back down onto the bridge. “This is our chance!” he cried, grabbing one of Hazül’s pale, mutilated limbs and hurling him forwards.

  As the surgeon stumbled and fell, Víga-Barói lifted his sword aloft and screamed: “Charge!”

  He looked over his shoulder as he ran and saw that half of the army was in no fit state to follow. Hundreds were dead, but even more had been mutated. The most unlikely anatomical combinations were trying to crawl after him: wings had replaced legs, heads had become featureless black orbs and spines had blossomed from backs like twisted, ivory trees. The resulting mess of limbs and animal parts brought a smile to his scarred face, but he knew it was never going to leave the bridge. Luckily, there were a few hundred knights who had avoided the cannon fire and, as the last of the guns fell silent, they wasted no time in clambering over the twitching wreckage and sprinting across the bridge towards him. At their head was Baron Schüler. His face was drenched with gore, but his eyes were fixed in a determined stare as he saw a chance to survive the nightmare he had created.

  A few arrows rattled off their shields as they approached the gates, but it was obvious that Mord Huk had placed all his faith in the guns. Víga-Barói howled victoriously as he reached the fortress’ tall brass gate. As the other knights ran towards him he pressed his face to the crack between the doors, snorting and sniffing with animal hunger.

  “I can smell you in there,” he cried, pounding the hilt of his sword against the metal. “The Dark Prince will have your blood.” Then he stepped back and looked up at the glinting chariots circling overhead. “How could I have doubted him?” he asked, turning to Schüler.

  The baron slumped against the doors, gasping for breath. “What?” he groaned, wiping the gore from his face.

  “I thought Sigvald’s genius was waning, but now I see that it’s just beginning. He’s going to bring this whole fortress to its knees.”

  “Has he joined the fighting?” replied the baron, looking up with hope in his eyes.

  Víga-Barói pulled back his shoulders, causing the barbs embedded in his sides to draw fresh streams of blood. “Stand tall, baron,” he said, regaining his usual velvety tones. He waved up at the silver contraptions plummeting towards the battlements. “The Geld-Prince is waging war as only he knows how, and you and I will be on hand to enjoy the spoils.” He paused as he noticed a small, hooded shape in the crowd of figures rushing towards the doors. “Énka,” he called out, summoning the sorcerer to his side.

  Énka hurried over and looked up at him with one of his large, glassy eyes. “Lord?”

  “Our prince is breaching the fortress and he needs us at his side.” He tapped a knuckle on the brass door behind him. �
��But Mord Huk is a poor host and he seems to have forgotten to open his doors. Can you open them for him?”

  Énka’s strange, piscine face lit up in a smile. He nodded and stretched his webbed hands out over the metal. His head dropped down between his shoulders and it looked as though he were going to simply shove the towering doors open, but instead of pushing he began to hum a jaunty melody. The words were indecipherable but there was something strangely lewd about Énka’s tone and as the metal around his fingers began to ripple, his stunted body shivered with pleasure. His movements became more pronounced and his words more frantic as the huge doors began to undulate and change colour.

  After a few minutes, the sorcerer looked up at Víga-Barói. “Done,” he gasped, already looking exhausted by his spell.

  “Wonderful,” said the sneering knight as he looked up at Énka’s work.

  Where the sorcerer had previously been leaning on a pair of thirty-foot brass doors, he was now gripping a shimmering curtain of purple silk.

  Víga-Barói drew back the material and stepped through into a circular courtyard. He found himself walking on skulls—the whole courtyard was lined with them and they were all slick with blood. There was a constant flow of the stuff, rushing down from the tower at the heart of the fortress and over the eight walls that surrounded it. Víga-Barói did not have long to study his surroundings though. A row of armour-clad, axe-wielding knights rushed to greet him and he barely had time to raise his sword in time to parry the first blow.

  Sigvald hacked wildly with a borrowed axe, driven into a frenzy by his lack of progress. He and his men had butchered the dwarfs and destroyed the guns, but as soon as they made it down into the courtyard they ground to a halt. Crowds of warriors blocked their way, clad in thick, serrated armour and snarling canine helmets. Sigvald slipped through them like a zephyr, easily dodging their brutal axes and slow, lumbering blows, but however quickly he sliced them apart, more rushed to replace them, trapping his knights in the corner of the courtyard. He could see Víga-Barói and the baron by the gates, surrounded by the same horde. The warriors’ armour was blood-red and edged with twisted, brass spikes and as they hacked off the heads of Sigvald’s men they roared with pleasure. It was rare that Mord Huk’s guns allowed them such sport.