[Heroes 04] - Sigvald
Page 17
“To the next circle!” cried Sigvald. “Find Mord Huk!” He levelled his axe at a second pair of brass gates and began hacking his way towards them.
More of Sigvald’s personal honour guard were rushing down from the wall behind him and at the sight of their heroic prince they slammed into Mord Huk’s warriors with such force that they finally began to shove them back.
Over by the gates, Víga-Barói’s men saw what was happening and tried to follow. As the defenders struggled to protect themselves from Sigvald’s frenzied attack, Víga-Barói and his men charged into their backs, attempting to make some progress of their own.
Sigvald swung his axe down into the warrior below him. The blade bit deep through the man’s gorget and embedded itself in his thick neck. The brute toppled to the ground in a spray of blood, bellowing with rage as Sigvald rolled clear, leaving the axe in his shattered armour.
As the prince clambered to his feet, several of his own men finally caught up with him and formed a defensive circle.
As they raised their mirrored shields to protect him, Sigvald let out a gasp of horror. “Look at me,” he cried, seeing his reflection and clutching his face in shock. The man’s blood had drenched Sigvald’s head and shoulders, staining his blond locks with thick, red gore. His usually perfect mane was clotted and matted with the stuff, giving Sigvald the look of a deranged prophet. As his men fought desperately to protect him, the prince tried to wipe himself clean, staring into the polished metal and moaning in horror at his bedraggled appearance. “I’m hideous,” he cried, unable to pull the muck from his hair. “Someone clean me.” He whirled around, his face purple with rage as he scanned the courtyard. “Oddrún? Where are you?”
The chancellor was trapped at the foot of the outer wall, looming awkwardly over the battling figures and still clutching the gold casket to his chest. The prince let out an incoherent howl as he launched himself at the dog-helmed warriors. His own guards struggled to follow him as he charged back into the melee, flooring one of the warriors with a single punch and grabbing the axe that slipped from his grip. Grasping the brutal weapon in both hands, he began hacking his way through the enemy, cursing them for making him so ugly. Mord Huk’s men were all towering brutes and clad in thick plate armour, but the slender figure of Sigvald sliced through them with incredible ease. None of them had ever faced an opponent who fought with such easy grace. A shower of heads and limbs surrounded the youth as he powered his way towards the second set of gates. It was only when he was almost halfway across the courtyard that Sigvald realised that none of his men had managed to follow him. Dozens of the crude, bestial helmets surrounded him as he saw that Víga-Barói and the others were still trapped at the foot of the outer wall, fighting for their lives as more of the red and brass warriors clattered into the courtyard.
Sigvald let out another howl of frustration as he saw that his entire army was on the brink of collapse. The press of bodies was too great for them to reach him and every minute they spent in the courtyard saw more of them dropping to the ground. “Where’s Mord Huk?” he said through gritted teeth. “I will have that helmet.” However many knights he floored though, he was unable to progress any further. The warriors’ laughter echoed harshly in the snouts of their grotesque helmets as they began to gradually wear him down.
As the prince felt his arms beginning to weaken, he finally realised the danger of his position. Even he could not survive alone for long against such determined foes and there was still no sign of the brass helmet. “I must have it,” he hissed, booting one warrior in the groin and hammering his axe down into the head of another, but it was useless: the crush of bodies was too great. Sigvald found himself being forced slowly back towards his own men. He howled and threw the axe down in disgust. Then he collapsed backwards in a feint, causing his attackers to clash into each other in confusion. As the tightly packed ranks of warriors stumbled and crashed to the ground, Sigvald span away with an acrobatic roll, landing on his feet and dashing back towards the gates.
His men had banded together beneath the billowing silk curtains to make a desperate last stand. As Sigvald approached them, his blood-splattered face was furious. “Pathetic!” he screamed, punching the first man he reached. “You can’t even kill this pack of morons.”
There was a. clatter of metal as Víga-Barói and Baron Schüler shouldered their way towards him.
“My prince,” said Víga-Barói with a low bow. “We’re outnumbered. It’s impossible.”
Baron Schüler shook his head wildly, his eyes wide with shock and his sword hanging limply in his hand.
Sigvald clutched his long hair in his fists and howled again. “Nothing is impossible,” he roared, yanking his own head from side to side. Then he loosed his hair and grabbed Víga-Barói by the throat, pressing their faces together. “We need to conquer that citadel. Do you understand? We need to.”
Víga-Barói dropped to his knees and shook his head. “We can’t do it, prince, not without more help.”
“You can’t stop now, prince,” gasped Schüler.
Sigvald dealt Víga-Barói a fierce backhanded blow that sent him sprawling across the skull-covered ground. “Idiot,” he spat, looking down at him in disgust. The prince’s cheeks grew even darker as his head continued to twitch and shake. He clamped his hands over his head again, trying to hold it steady. “Very well,” he said, nodding briefly at Schüler and then looking back out along the bridge. “More help he says. So be it.” He stepped over the fawning knight at his feet and strode from the courtyard.
“My prince,” gasped Baron Schüler, racing after him. An explosion of grinding metal drew his gaze back to the battle. The full force of Mord Huk’s army was now piling into them and, as he watched in horror, Sigvald’s army buckled and collapsed in the face of the onslaught.
“Pull back,” cried Víga-Barói, lurching to his feet and staggering back towards the curtains.
Sigvald did not look back as he stormed across the bridge with Oddrún hurrying after him. He seemed to have lost all interest in the battle and muttered curses under his breath as he pulled at his tangled hair.
“Énka,” roared Víga-Barói as he fought desperately to defend himself and stumbled back out onto the bridge. “The gates!”
The tiny hooded figure was still clutching onto the billowing material, but he had dropped to his knees and his head was lolling weakly on his shoulders.
“Let go!” snapped Víga-Barói as a red and brass wave rushed towards them. Énka gave no response and seemed to be in some kind of trance.
“Let go!” repeated Víga-Barói, booting Énka away from the curtains and sending him sprawling across the bridge.
Barely half of Sigvald’s army made it out of the courtyard before the gates reassumed their solid, brass reality. Several knights were trapped, their organs enveloped by the metal, and even more remained on the other side, moaning with pleasure as they were hacked apart by the victorious defenders.
“Prince, your men are being massacred,” cried Oddrún, struggling to keep up with the gold-clad figure.
Sigvald gave no reply but after a few minutes he stumbled to a halt, noticing an arc of delicate silverwork beneath the corpses. He dropped to his knees and began flinging bodies aside, still muttering to himself as he uncovered one of the chariots he had used to assault the wall. “Wake up!” he howled, lifting a broken bird from the bodies and shaking it violently in both hands, surrounding himself in a cloud of white feathers. The eagle was clearly dead and he threw it back down in disgust. Then he grabbed another one and began shaking that, screaming in frustration as its head flopped about in his grip. “Fly, you wretched bird,” he howled, throwing it up in the air. It slammed back down a few feet away and the prince dropped to his knees with a groan of despair. He was covered in drying blood and as the feathers settled over him, they lodged in his matted hair and stuck to his tacky armour. “Look at me,” he spat, holding up his feathered arms to Oddrún. “I look ridiculous.”
Sigvald shoved Oddrún away with a sneer. “Have to?” He lifted his chin disdainfully and attempted to flatten his knotted, sticky mane of hair. “I think not, old friend. Sigvald the Magnificent doesn’t have to do anything.” He waved at the twitching limbs that surrounded them. “I’ve indulged these indolent brats for far too long. They’re too soft. Too pampered.” He leant closer to Oddrún and lowered his voice. “But I will have that brass skull, Oddrún, make no mistake about it.” He pointed north, beyond the glinting peaks of the mountains. “If no one else can help me, I’m sure our patron will.”
Oddrún struggled to control his disjointed limbs for a second, holding up his long arms to steady himself. Then he shook his head. “What are you saying? You’ve already given Belus Pül your soul. What else can you bargain with?”
Sigvald laughed bitterly. “Daemons are rarely lacking in imagination. I’m sure there will be something I can offer in return for such a small favour.” His cheeks flushed purple and he jabbed a finger at the fortress. “I will not be denied my prize. Not by a dog-brained oaf and a bunch of witless apes.”
Oddrún shook his head again. “Don’t do this,” he said, with mounting panic in his voice. “Think about what you’re suggesting.”
“Pah!” said Sigvald, nodding at Oddrún’s trembling, hunched body. “Look where thinking got you.”
Oddrún lowered his head.
The prince looked pained for a second, seeming to regret his words, then he waved his hand dismissively and stormed off across the bridge. “I’ll be back in a day or two and then I’ll level this place to the ground.”
Oddrún stood in silence for a few minutes, rubbing his hands together and shaking his head, then he lurched after the receding figure of the prince, swinging his legs in great swooping strides.
As the two figures disappeared into the whirling banks of snow, still bickering, a column of survivors trailed after them, led by Víga-Barói, wearing his perpetual sneer as he waved his men on through the drifts. Every now and then he turned to look back at one of the knights and laugh at his haunted, anguished expression. “Keep up, baron,” he called, holding his sword aloft. “They’re headed north. Looks like the fun’s just beginning.”
* * *
Mord Huk sniffed the cool night breeze as it whipped across the crimson lake. “Fresh blood,” he grunted. His head resembled that of a grotesque, feral dog, complete with scarred snout, drooling, muscular jaws and a row of thick, yellow canines. He drew his steed to a halt. It was a lumbering mass of scarred muscle, iron and brass, welded together in vague imitation of a bull.
Mord Huk tilted back his head and wrinkled his bristly snout. “Lots of fresh blood.” He turned to the ranks of brass and iron behind him and waved his fist at a nearby rise.
Bursts of steam escaped from his mount’s mechanised joints as it stomped to the top of the hill. Once there, Mord Huk dropped down into the snow with a muffled crunch and peered out across the moonlit landscape. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Ahead of him was the fortress of Ör, surrounded by its broad, dark lake. Hundreds of lights were blinking along the fortress’ circular walls and, even at this distance, he could see mounds of bodies, piled across the slender bridge that led to his citadel. He had been attacked. A few broken banners were wedged in the corpses and he shook his head in disbelief as he saw the circular icon emblazoned across them. The greasy hair that covered his neck stood up in thick bristles and his hulking frame began to shake, rattling a helmet hung from his battered armour. The helmet was cast in brass and designed to resemble a leering skull. As it shook, it clanged ominously.
Mord Huk led his men down to the bridge, snorting and growling as he approached the piles of mangled limbs.
Some of the dog-helmed guards were picking their way through the mess, dragging behind them Sigvald’s surgeon, Hazül. The creature was unconscious, its wiry body a mess of open wounds, and its shroud of lilac hair in tatters.
At the sight of their lord, the soldiers dropped their prisoner and fell to their knees.
Mord Huk reined in his mount and glared down at them, long trails of drool hanging from his black muzzle. He looked at Hazül in confusion for a moment, then gestured to a nearby banner. It was torn and scorched, but the device of Slaanesh was still clearly visible. “Who?” he grunted.
One of the guards clanged his fist against his cuirass. “Lord, it was the child with golden hair.”
Mord Huk shifted forward in his saddle, panting slightly. “Sigvald?”
The guard nodded.
Mord Huk leant back with a snort. “Sigvald,” he repeated, beginning to shake with laughter.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An army of frozen Sigvalds punctuated the darkness, drenching the landscape with pale blue light. Each beaming prince was nearly twenty feet tall and built of slick, pulsing ice, and each of them was a caricature of the real prince, with exaggerated features and absurdly powerful muscles. As they lifted their arms in welcome, hundreds of weary figures shuffled through the snow towards them, throwing down their weapons and collapsing gratefully at their feet.
Baron Schüler’s mind was numb as he stumbled towards the ice sculptures. Exhaustion and terror had left his thoughts as featureless as the snow. The prince had led them north for two days, deep into the frozen wastes, and the small reserves of strength Schüler had built up in the Gilded Palace were gone. If he had been asked his own name at that moment he would have struggled to recall it. As he reached one of the blazing effigies he let out a groan of pleasure. The ice prince’s limbs were radiating unnatural warmth, melting the snow at its feet into a dark, bubbling pool. The baron dropped, pilgrim-like, to his knees, shedding ice from his ragged beard and his battered armour. He was vaguely aware that some of his deformed kinsmen were settling on the ground next to him, but he focussed all his attention on the glittering statue, afraid to acknowledge the grunting, slithering shapes that were pouring out of the night and waiting expectantly for his command. As he peered into the ice he caught a glimpse of his reflection. The make-up applied by Sigvald’s servants had run down his cheeks, blurring his features and giving the odd impression that his face was melting. Schüler nodded his head. The transformation was apt. He could no longer recognise his own thoughts, so it seemed right that he could no longer recognise his own face.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” asked Víga-Barói, waving at the ice sculptures as he emerged from the shadows. His scarred face was drenched in gore and his tight ponytail was slick with blood, but his sneer seemed almost playful. There was a spark of humour in his eyes as he dropped down next to the baron and waved over the heads of the assembled crowd. “It’s so like our prince to create such a picturesque source of warmth.” Several feet away, another frozen Sigvald was emerging from the snow, surrounded by gouts of steam and dwarfing the two figures at its feet. As the tiny, hooded sorcerer, Énka, summoned the thing into being, the real prince danced back and forth through the snow, gesticulating wildly and shouting instructions.
The baron looked blankly at Víga-Barói. He had not spoken to anyone for hours, and he was not sure if he could even remember how to. He turned away and finally allowed himself to look at some of the other figures moving towards the pale blue lights. He recognised the hunched, awkward shape of Oddrún, sitting alone, several feet away. “Who is he?” he asked, nodding towards the chancellor. His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar, but he continued. “What’s under that hood?”
Víga-Barói followed his gaze and shrugged. “Sigvald’s past.” He
saw the baron’s confused expression and continued. “Oddrún is the prince’s last link with his old life.” He waved at the grotesque parade milling around them. “He thinks that as long as he keeps Oddrún alive, he could somehow escape all this and find his way back to a normal life.” He fixed his eyes on the baron. “But there’s no way back, Baron Schüler. For any of us.”
Schüler felt a chill that did not come from the snow. He looked back at his reflection and winced. His face was growing more stretched and distorted in the melting ice. He looked the same as the monsters that surrounded him.
“What brought you north?” asked Víga-Barói, clearly amused by the baron’s dismay. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” He gestured to Schüler’s beautifully sculpted breastplate and his keen, bloody sword. “You have power beyond anything your kinsmen could dream of.”
The baron shook his head, but could not deny the truth of Víga-Barói’s words. He looked down at the sword. “I had a family once,” he muttered. “Normal people. A wife. Children. People who put their faith in me. They thought I could protect them.” He shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper. “But when the time came I could not. I could no more save them than I could hold back the sea. The Empire is spent.” He gripped his sword tighter as he tried to recall his original purpose. “All I could think to do was avenge them. I came here looking for the strength to…” his voice trailed off and he frowned. He looked around at the throbbing blue lights and shook his head. “But what does it matter? It all seems so long ago.”
Víga-Barói opened his mouth to reply, but his words died on his lips as he studied the baron’s face. For a brief second, his sneer faltered and his glare softened. Then he shook his head and laughed. “We’re all reborn in Sigvald’s image now, my friend.”