As the prince made his way slowly through the gardens, the remnants of his army hurried after him. At the head of the crush was Víga-Barói, wearing his perpetual sneer. He bowed low before his regent and stopped him in his tracks. “My lord,” he sighed, employing his most velvety tones. “The daemon is a gracious host, but your subjects long to serve you once more.” He waved to the bizarre assortment of creatures and knights assembling behind him.
Sigvald looked up in surprise as the sea of tusks, scales and horns crowded around him. “Do not look at me!” he snapped.
Víga-Barói shook his head in confusion. “My lord, what do you—”
“Look away!” howled Sigvald, turning away and trying to hide his battered armour and his lunatic spirals of hair.
The gaunt, bearded face of Baron Schüler appeared as he fought his way through the crowds. “My lord,” he gasped, looking from the prince to Víga-Barói with an anxious expression on his face. “When will we return to the Gilded Palace?”
Sigvald’s face flushed purple at the sight of the baron. He closed his eyes and clamped his hands over his scarred face. “Look away, all of you! I do not look like this. I am not here.” His subjects shuffled awkwardly and began to turn their backs on him, but Schüler rushed towards Sigvald with fear in his sunken eyes. “But my lord, what of those we left behind?”
As the baron knelt before him, Sigvald dealt him a fierce backhanded blow that sent him sprawling across the grass. “Leave me alone,” he cried, lurching off through the pavilions, pausing only to grab a sword from one of his men. “Oddrún,” he yelled, as he disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lights flickered silently on the horizon, burnishing the mountains and flaming along the edges of Sigvald’s armour. No natural trees could have grown in such a place, he decided. Only a perverse whim of the Ruinous Powers could have placed life in such a blasted spot. The forest was probably no more than a few miles wide, but its dark smudge dominated the landscape, heavy with menace. The densely packed pines knifed out of the snow like a threat.
Sigvald grimaced as Oddrún carried him beneath the gloomy boughs. The terrible wound in the prince’s leg had made climbing almost impossible, so he had strapped himself across the giant’s long, twisted back. As the chancellor smashed through the branches, Sigvald swung his borrowed sword over the giant’s shoulder, surrounding them with a cloud of twigs and creepers.
The oddness of the place was immediately apparent. As the branches snapped, they made no sound. Leaves fluttered and tumbled on the icy breeze, but they moved in a dreamlike silence. The only sound was Oddrún’s heavy breathing and even that sounded oddly flat and unreal, as though muffled by an invisible blanket. Something else was strange. Despite carving a wide path through the needling branches, when they looked back there was no sign of their passing. For every branch they moved aside, ten more fell into place. As they progressed, the arboreal shadows grew deeper and all trace of the frozen wastes vanished from view. Sigvald began to feel strangely insubstantial. The long shadows seemed more solid and impenetrable than his own flesh.
“How will we find our way back?” muttered Oddrún, after a painful hour of struggling through the undergrowth. He stopped and looked back, but even the towering peaks of the mountains had disappeared. He could see nothing but the trees.
“Wait,” said the prince, pointing his sword into the forest. “There’s something up there.”
Oddrún shook his head and placed his hands on his bony knees, gasping for breath.
“What are they?” asked Sigvald, untying himself and dropping to the ground. Oddrún gave no reply, still clutching his legs and drawing quick, ragged breaths as the prince limped off through the bracken, making for a row of pale shapes hanging overhead.
After stumbling a few yards closer he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh,” he muttered. The white shapes were the skins of people, peeled from their bodies and hung out in the wind like morbid pennants.
“Oddrún,” he called over his shoulder. “Bring me Doctor Schliemann.”
The giant stood up with a groan and crashed through the forest to Sigvald’s side. He looked up at the ghostly shapes and a thin hissing sound slipped from his hood. Then he noticed the expression on Sigvald’s face.
“Aren’t they perfect,” said Sigvald with a grin, waving at the fluttering skins. “Quite beautiful.”
Oddrún flinched and backed away. “They were people,” he gasped. “Is there no trace of pity left in you? What have you become?”
Sigvald shook his head in disbelief. “What have I become? Where did that come from? Look at you, cowering under that hood.” He began to laugh. “Do you think you’re normal, Narrerback? Do you think burying yourself in sackcloth makes you human?” He snatched the gold casket from Oddrún’s hands and waved at the chancellor’s hunched, body. “Maybe you should think about what you’ve become, old friend.”
Oddrún shook his head fiercely. “I’m what you made me.”
The smile dropped from Sigvald’s face. “You know that’s not true. We made our own choices, you and I.”
Seeing that Oddrún had no reply, Sigvald wrenched open the golden box. Doctor Schliemann’s head had slumped to one side and several of the copper coils and pipes had been torn from his neck. “Doctor?” asked Sigvald, prodding his discoloured flesh and shoving his spectacles back into position. “What you know about this Bargau?”
“I will help you no more,” croaked the head without opening its eyes.
Sigvald cursed and fiddled with the cogs on the side of the box, but there was no response. The head remained motionless with its eyes closed.
“What’s this?” he snapped. “Traitorous worm. I made you immortal and this is how you repay me?” He grimaced at the rotten state of the head and softened his voice. “I admit, this is not quite what I had in mind for you, but I’m sure Énka could restore your appearance when we return to the Gilded Palace.”
The head remained silent.
Sigvald sucked his teeth for a moment and then smiled. “What if I offered you your heart’s desire, Doctor Schliemann?”
Still there was no response.
“I know what you want. Oddrún’s right. It’s wrong of me to keep you here against your will.”
The doctor opened his eyes. They were almost totally white, but he seemed to be watching Sigvald with interest.
Sigvald held the head close and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The thought of losing you breaks my heart, but if it’s really what you wish…”
“Kill me,” begged the doctor.
Sigvald placed a kiss on the doctor’s blue-grey flesh. “Of course. I promise. Just as soon as you tell me about Bargau.”
“You heard what he said,” cried the doctor, rolling his eyes in the direction of Oddrún. “He promised to kill me.”
“I swear it on my father’s grave,” said Sigvald with a slight hitch in his voice.
Doctor Schliemann looked from Sigvald to Oddrún and back again. “Very well,” he muttered. “One last answer. The guardian of these woods is named Bargau the Soulless. The creature’s a relic of unimaginable antiquity. It’s dwelled here since the time of a mysterious race known as the Old Ones. All that remains of its world is this forest. Some say it’s part of a larger forest that stood here before the great cataclysm—before even the arrival of the Ruinous Powers and the Chaos Wastes. I can’t be sure of that, but it’s true that Bargau’s pact with the trees is ancient beyond understanding. I’m not sure of the details, but I know that they’re sworn to protect each other. Their faith in each other has ensured their mutual survival, through all these long centuries. The trees will have already informed Bargau of your presence. In return, the monster will drape your skins over their branches in tribute, once it has consumed your flesh.” The doctor paused. “As its name suggests, Bargau has no soul, and a being without a soul can never be slain.”
Sigvald shrugged. “It’s not a god. There must be some
way to kill it.”
“I know of none. Many have tried.”
Sigvald revealed his teeth in a feral grin. “I suggest you think again, doctor. I can feel your eternal rest slipping away from you.”
Doctor Schliemann muttered a curse and closed his eyes for a few moments, scouring his thoughts for an answer. “Well, I know that nothing can truly be without a soul. Bargau may have sundered its flesh from its spirit, but the spark of life must still be bound to something, or contained in some kind of receptacle. Fighting the creature’s physical self will get you nowhere—it’s said that very little of its mortal body actually remains—but if you can find the object that houses its soul, maybe you could destroy it through that.”
Sigvald shook the casket from side to side, bouncing the head around inside it. “But where is this object?”
“There’s no way of knowing,” groaned the head. “Bargau would never be so foolish as to reveal its location. You’ll have to search for it.”
“But it could be anywhere!”
“No. It will be here, in this forest. Bargau is bound to the place. It’s the last sliver of the creature’s ancient world—a fragment of another time. Bargau wouldn’t take its soul beyond the borders of this forest. It would be terrified by the idea of its discovery. It would keep it close by at all times.” The doctor looked around at the trees. “It will be in here somewhere.”
Sigvald nodded. “Very well. And this is all you can tell me?”
The doctor stared back at him, with a glimmer of hope in his opaque eyes. “There is nothing else to know.”
Sigvald slammed the casket shut and held it up to Oddrún. “Very well,” he said. “I see what we must do.”
Oddrún recoiled from the casket. “You swore to kill him!”
Sigvald laughed in shock. “Bless you, Oddrún, I swore on my father’s grave. Have you forgotten who put my father in his grave?”
Oddrún backed away, refusing to take the casket.
“Remember your promise!” howled Sigvald, levelling his sword at the cowering giant. He nodded at the shifting, huddled ranks of trees behind them. “There’s no way out of here until Bargau is dead.” He waved at his ruined body. “And I can barely stand. Carry it.”
Oddrún massaged his head with his long, paw-like hands but gave no reply.
“Very well,” laughed Sigvald, dropping the casket into the bracken and limping back down the slope. “He’s clever enough to work out his own way home.”
Oddrún shook his head in despair, grabbed the golden box and lurched after the prince.
“If Bargau and the trees are allied in some way,” said Sigvald, slapping one of the slender trunks, “the quickest way to draw the monster out is to harm the forest.” He nodded at the knotted muscles in Oddrún’s long, clumsy arms. “Knock one down and let’s see what happens.”
The giant hesitated for a moment, looking up at the pale, rippling figures drifting overhead, then he slammed his shoulder against the tree.
Finally, they heard a sound. A long, mournful bark echoed through the darkness, like the howl of a wounded beast. The noise did not come from the breaking wood, but from deep in the forest.
Sigvald smiled and waved for Oddrún to continue.
Oddrún shoved again and the roots tore free from the ground, bursting through the soil in a silent explosion of soil and splinters. The towering pine trembled briefly, then began to fall, crashing through the surrounding branches without a sound.
The animal cry echoed through the trees again and Sigvald peered through the shadows. Then he clapped Oddrún on his side. “That noise didn’t come from a tree. That must be our prey. He was just a couple of miles north of here. I’ve marked his position.”
Oddrún shook his head. “What can we do when he reaches us? Doctor Schliemann said it’s impossible to kill him.”
“Well, obviously I’m not just going to wait here for him,” said Sigvald, shaking his head in disbelief. “While you shove the trees over, I’m going to search his lair. He’ll never dream that we know his secret. He won’t be expecting me to hunt for his soul.”
“You’re going to leave me to face him alone?”
Sigvald shrugged. “Look at you, Oddrún.” He waved to the giant’s colossal frame. “I’m sure you can hold him at bay for a few minutes while I smash whatever trinket he has bound himself to.”
“No, I beg you!” cried Oddrún, looking around at the sombre pines. “Don’t leave me here.”
Sigvald sighed. “Very well,” he muttered, taking the casket from Oddrún. “Maybe there’s another way.”
“The doctor won’t help you anymore.”
Sigvald smiled and lobbed the casket into the trees. It flashed briefly in the dappled moonlight, bounced noiselessly off a few branches and disappeared from view.
“If you keep your eye on that spot,” said Sigvald, levelling his finger at the trees, “you should be able to find him.” With that, he turned on his heel and limped off through the trees.
Oddrún groaned in despair and dashed off in the opposite direction, trying to keep the trajectory of the casket fixed in his mind.
Sigvald became lost almost immediately. With no stars above and no sign of his route behind, he had nothing to guide him. Undaunted, he stumbled and crawled through the dense thicket, slicing open the silence with bursts of hysterical laughter. Despite his lack of clear direction, he was sure he was nearing the heart of the forest. As he limped through the trees, the temperature was slowly rising. There was no trace of ice on the knotted trunks and the leaves beneath his feet were brittle and dry. It seemed as though the closer he got to the centre, the deeper he sank into the past. He began to notice movement in the shadows—tiny shapes that peered suspiciously at him with amber, feline eyes, but vanished before he could discern their shape.
Another desolate cry echoed through the night and Sigvald dropped to the ground. Less than a hundred yards away he saw a vast shadow hurrying through the trees, shaking the human hides as it passed. Good work, Oddrún, he thought, realising that his chancellor must have torn down another tree. He waited a few minutes until he was sure the shadow had passed, then climbed to his feet and struggled on through the trees, heading in the direction the creature had come from.
After another ten minutes of searching, Sigvald noticed a thick, cloying smell, drifting through the forest. He recognised it immediately from Víga-Barói’s surgeries. It was the sweet smell of rotting flesh. He picked up his pace as he saw glistening red mounds scattered across the bracken up ahead. “Bargau,” he whispered, “you’re such a messy eater.”
Sigvald paid no heed to the bodies as he hurried towards what looked like a broad-backed hill, squatting ominously ahead of him in the darkness. He burst from the trees into a wide clearing and saw Bargau’s home. Rather than a hill, he realised it was a huge domed mound, like the nest of a colossal bird. Its walls had been constructed from a gruesome collection of rotten leaves, bones and human skin. The thing must have taken centuries to construct; the bones numbered in the thousands. Several round holes glared out at him from the walls and he made straight for the largest of them, drawing his sword as he entered.
Oddrún froze at the sound of another howling cry. It was much louder, much closer. The tree in his hands was about to topple, but he wrapped his long fingers around it and held it in place, peering into the darkness. Everything seemed to be in motion; branches, leaves and moonlight swam between the ancient pines. He hissed and lurched back from the tree. It fell as noiselessly as the others, rupturing and splintering in silence as it slammed down into the small, moonlit clearing he had created.
“Sigvald?” he breathed, trying to control his trembling limbs.
There was no reply, but as Oddrún watched in horror, the undulating shadows formed into a single, inky mass: a great hulking mound, shouldering its way through the branches towards him.
He reached down and wrapped one of his spindly hands around the casket at his feet. After a mo
ment’s hesitation, he muttered an apology and flipped open the lid, to see the back of Doctor Schliemann’s head.
He looked up to see that the shambling figure was just a few yards away from the clearing. The rippling shadows made it hard to be sure, but he thought the thing looked massive—almost as tall as he was, and as broad as an ox.
“Doctor,” he gasped, reaching into the casket. His bandaged fingers slipped through rotten flesh and muscle and he withdrew his hand with a groan, seeing a piece of grey skin hanging from his grip. At that moment, a vast shadow fell over the clearing and Oddrún whirled around to face Bargau the Soulless.
Bargau did not so much have a body as a collection of body parts. Its flesh was a hotchpotch of bones, leaves and borrowed skin, all bound together by a patchy hide of moss. The thing was vaguely bird-like in shape: a long, creeper-covered neck, a chest of matted branches and trailing goatskin wings, all topped with an enormous bird skull, compete with a long beak and a crest of ragged vine leaves. As it smashed into the moonlight, it looked around at the damaged trees and let out another mournful howl, raising its tattered wings in horror and fixing its eyeless sockets on the cowering perpetrator.
Oddrún backed away, shaking his head and scouring the trees for any sign of Sigvald.
Bargau tilted its head and stepped towards him. It opened its beak and began to speak. The beak was motionless as the words tumbled out, and the voice did not seem to really belong to the creature so much as the surrounding air. “What,” it asked, in a voice like a nail being drawn from a plank, “are you?”
As Oddrún continued to stumble back through the clearing, he felt a thick branch snap under his feet.
Bargau flinched, as though slapped, and howled again. “Don’t,” it said, in its scraping, metallic voice.
Realising that no help was coming, Oddrún pulled himself to his full height and straightened his back with a crack of tired bones. Shame had caused him to hunch and cringe for countless decades, but now, alone with such a grotesque monster, he decided to tilt back his head and allow his hood to tumble from his face. He felt a grim satisfaction as Bargau stepped back, clearly unnerved by his appearance.
[Heroes 04] - Sigvald Page 23
