[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  The crystal mountain was even more treacherous than the previous summits. The moonlight lanced down through its jagged facets, making it almost impossible to know where to tread. Each icy step looked as if it might be a bottomless pit lined with unforgiving points and disorientating reflections. Before he had climbed halfway, Sigvald collapsed in defeat—clattering down onto the rocks with a bark of frustration. “Must we climb the whole thing?” He stared back down through the billowing drapes of snow, but could see no sign of Oddrún. In desperation, he drew his sword and lashed wildly at the crystal. His blade glanced off it without leaving as much as a scratch. “How do we get in?” he yelled into the storm, knowing there was no one to answer. He looked at the creatures circling above.

  His awed appreciation of their appearance was already fading, being quickly replaced by irritation at the delay. Somewhere south of him, a dog-headed moron was riding to war wearing the brass skull that should rightfully be his. “What a waste,” he muttered, considering the tragedy of such godlike power being funnelled through the mind of a simpleton.

  As he lay back against the ice, lamenting the unfairness of his fate, Sigvald noticed that the snow had turned to hail. Large, gleaming pellets of the stuff were drumming against the mountainside and pinging off his golden armour. There was something strange about the downpour and he held out a hand to catch a piece. As he held the hail to his face, Sigvald realised it was not made of ice; it was a thick, anaemic maggot as large as his thumb. As it wriggled in his grip, he saw a dark shape suspended inside its fleshy rolls. He gave the maggot a gentle squeeze and it popped, allowing a winged, black eel to slide between his fingers and flutter off into the storm. The prince shook his head in disgust and looked up at the roiling clouds. As he did so, dozens of the maggots landed in his hair and on his face. Several of them burst as they hit him, spawning more of the black eels. “This is ridiculous, I can’t even—” he began, before gagging as one of the creatures landed in his mouth and burst over his tongue. He leapt to his feet and heaved himself up onto a higher piece of crystal, coughing and spitting. “Oddrún,” he howled, desperately batting away more of the grubs, “what does the doctor say?”

  There was no reply and Sigvald’s face began to twitch as his frustration grew. “What am I doing here?” he screamed, pounding his forehead with his fists. He stumbled backwards, landed badly and slid across the icy slope, hurtling down a narrow crevasse. His armour scraped and banged over the faceted crystals and when he came to a halt, several feet down the slope, he lay still, shivering with rage and pain. After a few moments he looked up and frowned in confusion. A few feet away, on the other side of a small rise, a pale, slack-jawed face watched him. He climbed to his feet, wincing at the dozens of fresh bruises that were throbbing beneath his armour. “Hello?” he called, raising his hand to shield his head from the maggots which were still tumbling off the rocks. As he approached the face, it was hard to be sure exactly what he was seeing. Everywhere he looked, he saw reflections of pale jowly skin, wide, vacant eyes and drooling, toothless gums.

  It was not until he was just a few feet away that Sigvald realised the grotesque scale of the face. The thing was over thirty feet tall and its gaping mouth led down into a vast, inky void. Sigvald grinned, noticing that it was exhaling huge, foetid blasts of subterranean air. “This must be it,” he gasped, approaching the yawning jaws. As he neared the face, he realised that the huge eyes were looking down at him in abject terror. Sigvald stepped closer and then cursed. The maggots were still pouring down from the storm clouds and one of them had lodged in his hair. He brushed it away and lifted his circular shield over his head. “I’m seeking a Great Drake,” he cried, looking up into the monstrous, rolling eyes. “Can you show me the way?”

  A low moan was the face’s only reply.

  Sigvald squinted through the hail, trying to see to the back of the huge mouth. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though there was some kind of cavern or tunnel back there. He looked nervously over his shoulder. “Oddrún,” he cried. “Are you there?”

  The only sounds came from the daemonic creatures screeching overhead and Sigvald knew he was alone. He looked back at the cavernous mouth and grimaced. Finally, the constant rattle of the maggots drumming against his shield decided the matter. He strode purposefully towards the mouth, climbed over the moist, toothless gums and stepped down onto its vast, flaccid tongue. As his feet sank into the soft muscle, he paused, looking around to see what would happen. The moaning sound grew a little louder, but other than that, nothing changed. Sigvald shrugged and took another few steps. The moonlight did not reach very far inside the mouth, but he felt even more certain he could see some kind of cavern at the back of the tongue. “This must be it,” he said, striding forwards.

  Oddrún cursed as he heaved the gold casket over a ledge and hauled himself up after it. The vile creatures were still pounding against his hood, but he paid them no attention as he climbed to his feet and scoured the glittering mountainside for any sign of the prince. Something strange caught his eye and he reeled off down a narrow crevasse. At the far end of the gulley he emerged into a small opening and shook his head in disbelief. A vast, thirty-foot tall face was leering down at him from the rock. Its mouth was clamped tightly shut and its enormous eyes were shining with mirth. The chancellor backed away in horror, even more desperate to find Sigvald. Then he clambered off over the crystals, looking for a way into the mountain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After a few days, Brother Bürmann started to realise something had changed. The surgery lights still glared down on him, picking out the rows of knives and the lurid vats of acid, but the chambers had grown oddly quiet. Far at the back of his tortured, broken mind, a glimmer of hope flickered into life. “The screaming,” he thought, lifting his head from his chest and staring into the darkness. “It’s stopped.”

  The other slaves gazed through him, unseeing, as he shook their shoulders and tried to rouse them. He understood. What right did he have to drag them from such merciful oblivion? What right did he have to consider escape? And anyway, after the things they had done and seen, what would be the point in leaving? There was no way back for any of them, no chance of a normal life. Even if he could somehow find his way out, how could he ever face his congregation, carrying memories of such dreadful crimes? He ran a finger up the scar on his neck. How could he preach, without a voice? He tried to settle down and wait for the return of the lilac-haired surgeon, but it was useless: his mind kept teasing him with visions of freedom until finally he pulled himself to his feet with a wordless groan and, wincing at the pain in his cramped muscles, he stepped out into the operating theatre.

  The crimson-stained slabs were empty. The grotesque bodies of Hazül’s patients had all vanished. The only reminders of their presence were the bloodstained knives and a single iridescent wing, shimmering and fluttering on the floor. Brother Bürmann ran a hand over his shaved head and frowned. For as long as he could remember, these chambers had been filled with screams and pleas for mercy, but now there was only the sound of his own laboured breathing.

  Or was there?

  The monk held his breath for a moment to listen. Somewhere outside, he could hear the sound of breaking glass and cracking wood. His heart raced. The Gilded Palace was a labyrinth. Those who were foolish enough to enter would never find their way out again if the Geld-Prince did not wish it. But maybe the vandal he could hear might be able to lead him to freedom?

  He hurried past the empty slabs and stumbled into the passageway outside. It was equally deserted. Several portraits of Sigvald had been torn from their dusty perches, and the prince’s face grinned up at Bürmann as he lurched past, heading towards the door that led onto the balconies outside. As he reached the door, the priest looked anxiously up and down the corridor, expecting to be discovered at any moment.

  A memory of Hazül’s wailing voice drifted out of the darkness. “You must grow to love the screams. Think of it as a wonder
ful opera, with yourself as the conductor, teasing the music from your cast.” Bürmann shuddered. He had to escape. Whatever horrors waited outside, they could never match Víga-Barói’s surgeon. He shoved the doors open and crept out into the night.

  The Gilded Palace was spread before him—its golden spires and cupolas blazing through the snowflakes. He leant on the balcony and looked down through the endless storm, beyond the dangling foundations to the distant rocks below. The landscape was empty. Not a single sentry was patrolling the grounds of the estate. He looked up at the walls of the palace. Every window was dark. Was he really alone? No, there it was again—the sound of glass smashing and maybe even a voice, howling curses.

  He stepped back inside and hurried down the hallway, rushing through a series of doors towards the sound. As he went, he abandoned all sense of caution and broke into a run. He knew it couldn’t be long before he was discovered. He would never have this chance again. He began to realise it was a woman’s voice he could hear and it was cursing Sigvald’s name. He picked up his pace. It must be another slave. Maybe together they could find a way out?

  Brother Bürmann entered the cool gloom of a chapel and stumbled to a halt. The room was lined with delicate frescoes depicting Sigvald’s countless victories. Bürmann gasped at the grandiose beauty of the images. He had never been admitted to Sigvald’s private chambers before and even in the pale moonlight the effect was stunning. There was a row of circular windows along one side of the chapel filled with leaded, coloured glass that splashed a kaleidoscope of colours across the frescoes. The heroic scenes were animated by the gaudy lights, pulsing with life and passion, and even knowing all that he knew, Bürmann could not help but admire them. The frescoes reached all the way up to the distant vaulted dome of the ceiling, where they framed a row of golden bosses, each designed to resemble the laughing face of the Geld-Prince.

  Bürmann flinched as he noticed a towering, marble statue gazing down at him from the far end of the aisle. The gleaming stone was carved in the likeness of a dreadful Chaos daemon: an androgynous youth, wearing a simple habit and a serene smile that seemed in direct contrast with a pair of dark horns. The daemon was holding a long-stemmed lily in one of its hands; its other hand was extended towards the pews in silent benediction.

  The priest found himself drawn irresistibly towards the beautiful figure and stumbled down the aisle, mouthing silent prayers as he went. As he dropped to his knees at the statue’s feet, he noticed that the flagstones were covered with hundreds of fragments of canvas. Each piece was a fraction of a painting, showing a detail of Sigvald’s face: blue eyes, aquiline noses and golden locks were scattered around the room, as though the Geld-Prince had been torn apart by his daemonic patron.

  The sound of breaking wood snapped Bürmann from his reverie and he turned away from the statue with relief, scouring the shadows for the source of the noise. He saw a movement in one of the pews and crept forwards, terrified that he might see the scarred features of Víga-Barói glaring at him from the darkness. To his relief, he saw a young woman instead, crouching on the floor between the pews and tearing a painting into long strips. She had her back to him, but something about her seemed familiar. As Bürmann edged closer, he heard a stream of muttered curses coming from her mouth. She was using the sinuous, revolting language of the Chaos Wastes, but the source of her anger was clear. She was spitting and hissing as she tore Sigvald’s face into a thousand pieces.

  Bürmann paused, unsure whether to reveal his presence. Then, as he watched the woman struggling with the canvas, he felt a sudden rush of lust. He shook his head in disbelief, appalled at himself. Despite the awful danger he was in, despite the brutal visions locked in his mind, he found himself staring at the tight-fitting damask of the woman’s jade dress, leering at her like a teenager. As the woman wrenched the painting apart, the dress shifted enticingly over her curves, causing the priest to emit a wordless moan of dismay.

  The woman leapt to her feet and turned to face him.

  It took a few seconds for the priest to drag his gaze up from her bodice and realise that her face was hidden behind a veil. Princess Freydís, he thought, with a jolt of terror.

  The princess stood in silence for a few seconds, panting slightly from her exertions. Then she drew back the veil and met the priest’s gaze with a look of furious defiance. She lifted her chin and addressed him in sharp, icy tones. “You’re one of Víga-Barói’s pets,” she announced, using the priest’s own language without any trace of an accent. “You’ve escaped.”

  The priest nodded vaguely and stepped closer, flexing his fingers as he imagined running them over her long, ivory neck.

  The princess fixed him with her pale blue eyes and placed a hand on his chest. “Help me, priest. Sigvald has betrayed me.” Her voice cracked as she looked up at the murals. “He’s forsaken me.”

  The priest could not tear his eyes from the princess’ face. The idea of such an impossibly beautiful creature in pain was almost more than he could bear. Tears filled his eyes and he let out a pitiful moan, trying to tell the woman that he would never abandon her.

  The hardness vanished from Freydís’ eyes and she graced him with a sad smile. “All I desire is to leave this cursed place and begin my life anew.” She placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “With someone who could protect me.”

  The priest dropped to his knees with a whimper and threw his arms around her legs.

  Freydís gently removed herself from his grip and shook her head. “But my pitiless husband has forbidden me to leave.” She waved at the tall, leaded windows and the bitter edge returned to her voice. “I’m trapped in here forever. Or at least, until I’m discovered by some wandering adventurer and murdered.”

  Bürmann shook his head in dismay, looking back at the exit.

  Freydís shook her head. “His foul little trout-faced sorcerer has cursed me. I can’t step beyond the confines of this palace. As soon as I approach the doors, my legs refuse to take me any further. And not one of his wretched sycophants will help.” Her eyes widened and she gripped the priest’s shoulder. “But maybe you could?”

  The monk nodded eagerly and climbed to his feet, mouthing a silent cry of assent.

  Freydís leant closer and cradled his face with her hands, bringing her lips so close that they were almost kissing. “You could carry me,” she breathed.

  The monk strained forwards, closing his eyes and moaning slightly.

  “Can you do that?” she whispered, tracing a finger over his trembling jaw.

  He took a deep breath and looked around the chapel. Then he nodded again and waved at the door he entered through.

  Freydís gave him a wry smile and shook her head, waving to another, smaller door, beneath the statue of the daemon. “I know a better way, priest.”

  Bürmann’s head swam as they dashed through a series of empty halls and passageways. The rooms were full of Freydís’ handiwork: broken statues and torn canvas covered the marble floors, but the priest was blind to anything beyond the princess. As she ran ahead of him, his head filled with visions of such a depraved, lurid nature that he could not believe they had originated in his own mind. His muscles were wasted and cramped from days of inactivity, but he matched Freydís step for step, sprinting after her slender form like a hound on the trail of a fox.

  After a ten-minute race through gloomy, abandoned chambers and lonely, storm-lashed gardens, they finally reached the vaulted passageway that led to the main entrance. Freydís began to applaud as she ran. “He did not predict this,” she said, pausing beneath one the huge portraits that lined the walls. “You will not abandon me,” she spat, glaring up at Sigvald’s beaming face. “I’m not one of your feeble-minded toys.”

  Brother Bürmann looked around anxiously as she grabbed the gilt frame and heaved the painting from the wall, sending it crashing to the floor. He moaned and tugged the sleeve of her dress, but she ignored him and dropped onto the canvas; clawing at Sigvald’s face with her l
ong nails and letting out a desolate, piercing scream.

  Bürmann attempted to pull her to her feet, moaning and waving down the passageway, but the more she hacked at the painting the more frenzied she became. Her long, dark tresses tumbled over her face and her screams grew wilder. “How dare you leave me behind?” she wailed, her body wracked by sobs. “How could you betray my love? I’ll find you, Sigvald! You’ll pay for this!”

  The monk backed away, shaking his head, as she abandoned herself to her grief. He looked down at her, suddenly filled with doubt. Did she really wish to flee with him, or did she have something else in mind? He glanced down the passageway and wondered if he might be safest to leave her and make his way out alone, but it was no good. He knew he could never leave without her. He reached out a hand to pull her away from the painting, but then he paused, noticing that the passageway was suddenly filled with the stink of rotten food.

  Warm flesh wrapped around Bürmann’s face, snapping his head back and slamming him to the floor. He tried to rise, but several powerful limbs were pinning him in place. The priest moaned in terror as his eyes followed the limbs to their source: a huge, slavering head, swaying back and forth on a nest of snake-like appendages and leering down at him. The grotesque head smiled conspiratorially and raised a tentacle up to its vast mouth, indicating that he should be silent.

  Freydís was too consumed by her grief to notice the shadow that fell over the painting as the monster swung towards her.

  Ansgallür the Famished watched his ward in silence for a few seconds, clearly relishing the sight of her pain. Then, as her movements became less frantic and she started to slump wearily towards the torn canvas, one of his limbs unfurled from beneath his jaw in a languorous, sinuous movement and lashed itself around her waist.

  Princess Freydís howled in shock and threw herself back from the picture, but as she moved, dozens more limbs wrapped around her, raising her up from the floor as easily as a child and fixing the veil around her face. “Let me go!” she screamed, as Ansgallür turned her to face him.