[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “Draw the blade across your tongue,” said Schliemann.

  Sigvald pursed his lips and frowned. “Really?”

  The doctor nodded. “Only by mingling the fruit with your blood can your prayer be heard.”

  Doubt flashed briefly in Sigvald’s eyes and he looked over at Oddrún, who was now huddled on the road a few yards away from the gate. “Will you let me go alone then, Narrerback?”

  The giant rocked back on his heels and clutched his knees, but did not reply.

  Sigvald stared at him in disbelief and, for a second, he looked utterly sober. Then, as quickly as it came, the sobriety vanished—¾ replaced by a dazzling grin. “You’ll follow me.” Then he raised the sword to his mouth and dragged the blade across his extended tongue, sending a torrent of crimson down over his chin.

  “Swallow the fruit and speak after me,” said the doctor, with a note of urgency in his voice.

  Sigvald popped the fruit between his bloody teeth and swallowed it, then nodded at the doctor.

  The doctor uttered a single, guttural word in a language that neither Sigvald nor the giant recognised.

  Sigvald mimicked him as best he could, but the wound to his tongue gave the word a lisping, mumbled quality.

  The doctor proceeded to utter a string of vile-sounding phrases that Sigvald attempted to imitate through a mouthful of blood.

  “You must keep your hand on the stone,” snapped the doctor, looking anxious and edging closer.

  Sigvald nodded and leant more of his weight against the rock. His eyes widened and he looked down at his stomach with a grimace.

  “Don’t move your hand!” cried the doctor.

  Sigvald nodded furiously, but it was clear from the veins bulging on his neck that he was in great pain.

  Oddrún clambered to his feet with a moan and raced towards the prince.

  As the giant approached, the phantom doctor stepped towards him with a curse, holding his hands up to block his way.

  As the giant stumbled to a halt, unwilling to touch Schliemann’s translucent flesh, a flash of light lit up the gate.

  Sigvald looked down to see that flames had burst from his stomach and were quickly enveloping his body. He looked over at the doctor, his face a mask of fear.

  Schliemann looked back at him with a delighted grin.

  The prince finally tried to flee, but found that his hand was now locked to the black stone.

  Oddrún stepped around the doctor, but it was too late; by the time he reached the gate, the flames were too fierce for him to reach Sigvald. He reached into the fire with a desperate howl, but was forced back by the heat, collapsing to his knees a few feet away.

  As Sigvald’s body blackened and collapsed in on itself, Schliemann clasped his hands together in a silent prayer and closed his eyes.

  By the time Oddrún looked back at him, the doctor was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Oddrún sat for a long time, watching the smouldering remains. The giant’s shoulders were slumped and rounded by despair and every few minutes he would rise to his feet to leave, only to sit back down with a string of muttered curses. Finally, he turned his gaze towards the hawthorn at the foot of the stones. Unfolding his long, gangly limbs, he loped over to the bushes and plucked one of the berries. The fruit was a tiny, crimson dot in his bandaged palm. He peered closely at it, just as Sigvald had done. Then he stepped over to the stone and plucked the cooling sword from the prince’s ashes. Ripples of jade and cerise washed over him as he raised the sword towards his hood and stared through the Lucid Gate.

  He stood like that for several minutes, as motionless as the ancient rocks.

  Then, with a groan, he let the sword clatter to the ground and stepped away from the stones, dropping the berry as he went. He shook his head and looked around at the madness that surrounded him. “I can’t,” he muttered, turning his back on the rocks and heading back the way he had come, leaving the empty gold casket at the foot of the gate.

  Oddrún paid little attention to his route as he stumbled south, with the flickering curtains of lights at his back. He blindly followed the straight black road until, after several hours, a little normality began to reassert itself over the landscape. On either side of him, the towering peaks reared out of the storm once more and the snow-covered ground began to look a little more stable. Even the skies became clearer: the ship-like carcasses drifted up through the clouds, leaving behind them just a few of the winged serpents, circling playfully around the heavens, silhouetted by the twin moons.

  After a few hours Oddrún recognised a path through the mountains and left the black road, retracing his steps in the direction of Belus Pül’s garden.

  “Where’s the prince?” gasped Víga-Barói as Oddrún stumbled across the grass.

  A crowd of expectant faces quickly gathered around the giant and he shook his head. “Gone,” he muttered, in a desolate voice.

  A chorus of whispers erupted from the strange assembly.

  “Gone?” snapped Víga-Barói, raising a trembling hand to silence the others. “Gone where?”

  “Dead.”

  “You’re mad,” replied Víga-Barói. “The Geld-Prince is immortal.”

  Baron Schüler barged his way through the crowd and looked up at the giant. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice taut with emotion.

  Oddrún shrugged. “The doctor tricked him.” He looked down at the blackened bandages around his hands. “And I left it too late to save him. I failed him.”

  “Nonsense,” hissed Víga-Barói, his eyes wide with fear. “You’ve been driven mad by whatever you saw up there. I’ll ask the prince’s patron what’s happened.” He shoved his way through the wall of inhuman faces, heading towards the centre of the garden and the iron gate that led to Belus Pül.

  Baron Schüler hurried after him and together they wrenched open the gate and rushed into the little orchard.

  The white-robed figure had returned and was waiting in the centre of the lawn with the spider-like scribe crouched nearby.

  Víga-Barói bowed low and adopted his most oily tones. “My lord, we’ve imposed far too long on your generosity. If you would be so good as to tell us the whereabouts of your servant, the Geld-Prince, we’ll depart and trouble you no more.”

  Belus continued staring into the middle distance, as though it had not heard the sneering knight. Then, just as the knight was about to repeat himself, the daemon began to speak.

  “Some tales grow in the telling,” it announced, lifting its chin so that the moonlight fell dramatically over its face, “but many more diminish. And so it was with Sigvald the Magnificent. The deity had long dreamt of elevating this simple mortal and creating an eternal companion but even after all the help he had been given, Sigvald proved to be unworthy of such lofty ambitions.” Belus took one of the items of jewellery from its arm—a bronze torque—and held it at arm’s length, as though it were suddenly repulsive, before dropping it to the ground. “The prince’s flesh proved too weak. He was, in the end, unable to make the journey into the Intangible Realm. His demise was, perhaps, a blessing. The deity resigned itself to an eternity of solitude, and refused all offers of sympathy—asking nothing but privacy in which to nurse its wounds.”

  Víga-Barói lurched to his feet and glared at the slight, horned figure. “You sent him to his death!” he cried, losing all semblance of self-control. He drew his sword and levelled it at the frantically working scribe. “Just so you could add an interesting chapter to this pathetic, self-aggrandising myth.”

  The daemon’s face remained as serene as ever.

  “Stop writing,” howled Víga-Barói striding forwards and slicing his sword through the scribe’s twitching limbs. The blade cut through the thing’s arms and sank deep into its eyeless face. Black blood erupted from the wound and the scribe staggered back, raising a forest of ivory appendages in a useless attempt to defend itself. The knight groaned with pleasure as he hacked repeatedly into the shuddering creature, cove
ring his purple cuirass in tar-like blood and only stopping when the thing was still. He reached down into the pulpy, black mess and grabbed the scribe’s severed, pallid ear.

  “Carry on with your story then,” he cried, holding the dripping ear up to the daemon. “Tell me how you sent the Geld-Prince to his death! The most excellent knight ever to grace these shores. Tell me how you killed him on a whim.”

  Belus finally fixed its cool grey eyes on Víga-Barói, and they were sparkling with mirth.

  As the daemon’s gaze fell on him, Víga-Barói’s head snapped backwards as if he had been punched.

  Baron Schüler rushed to catch the knight as he fell, but then he gasped in disgust and backed away, letting him fall to the ground.

  As Víga-Barói’s body collapsed onto the grass, dozens of long, needle-like limbs burst through his chest. He cried out in horror, but the sound was cut short as his mouth vanished behind a layer of pale skin. Within seconds, the features of his face vanished, leaving just a single, large ear.

  Schüler hurried towards the iron gate as a pale, multi-limbed creature dragged itself from Víga-Barói’s armour and scuttled across the lawn.

  Belus Pül turned and stepped over to the juniper tree with the chair hanging from its low, knotted boughs. “The deity watched Sigvald’s servants depart with a heavy heart,” said the daemon, looking over at the pale, faceless man that had previously been Víga-Barói.

  As the daemon’s new scribe raised its twitching limbs and began to write, Schüler slammed the gate behind him and rushed back across the garden, trembling with renewed hope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The creatures attacked with astonishing speed. Their white, lissom bodies flew across the room with such grace that it seemed more like dance than violence. There was no trace of clothing to hide their androgynous flesh and as they approached Sväla she saw that their eyes were as black as coal.

  The Norscans raised their weapons to defend themselves, but the creatures sliced into them with a gleeful scream, pinioning some to the floor with their serrated claws and garrotting others with their segmented tails.

  Had there been more than two of the creatures, the fight would have been over very quickly. Even with such skewed odds, Sväla and the others found themselves locked in a desperate battle for survival. The jaunty, staccato music they had heard from the other side of the curtains continued as the combatants lurched across the drawing room, crashing into plush, upholstered furniture and stumbling over intricately embroidered silk rugs.

  The Norscans fought in silence—hacking and jabbing at the creatures with grim determination. Gradually, they began to break through the nymphs’ frenzied attacks and land blows on them, but the creatures gave no sign of retreating; in fact, they seemed to relish the pain—gasping lasciviously at each new scar and flicking long, black tongues across their wounds.

  As the struggle continued the tempo of the music increased, keeping time with the lunges and thrusts of the warriors, giving the fight the appearance of a strange, bloodthirsty performance. To the Norscans it seemed that the harder they fought, the more pleasure it gave their foes and as the minutes passed, more of them dropped to the ground, their necks severed by snapping, crab-like claws.

  Along with the music and the grunting of the warriors, another sound emerged.

  Sväla pulled back from the fight for a second and allowed herself a quick glimpse back at the curtain.

  Ungaur the Blessed was standing a few feet away, with his staff raised and his head jolting from side to side. His face was locked in a grimace and it was clear he was in agony. Blood was running from between his fingers and trailing down the gnarled length of wood, washing over the bones and fetishes and pooling at his feet. As he held the staff aloft, a stream of guttural words was tumbling from between the jaws of the wolf’s head, and the shaman’s massive, fur-clad frame was trembling with exertion. His words were brittle with pain and his knuckles were white from gripping the staff so tightly.

  Sväla stepped towards him, but before she could speak Ungaur uttered a final, hoarse syllable and levelled his staff at the struggling figures.

  Viscous crimson light poured from the staff and washed over the Norscans. As the shaman’s energy rippled through them, the warriors’ blows tripled in fury, until their weapons were rising and falling with incredible speed.

  The nymphs could not survive such an onslaught and finally slumped back against the wall, drenched in blood and sobbing with ecstasy as the Norscans hacked their bodies apart.

  Once they were sure the creatures were dead, the Norscans backed away from their gory handiwork, nodding at each other in satisfaction, and looking at their throbbing muscles in shock.

  Then Sväla saw Ungaur topple backwards, slamming onto the polished floorboards like a felled tree.

  She rushed to his side and lifted his head.

  At first the shaman’s eyes were unable to focus, then he saw who was holding him and revealed his black spines in a grin. “I have to admit, Sväla,” he gasped, “I was saving all my strength to kill you. There was something about those things, though…” he grimaced as he looked over at the two crumpled corpses. “They seemed equally worthy targets.”

  Sväla shook her head, stunned. “If you had such power in you, all this time, why have you let me live? I know you wish me dead.”

  The shaman narrowed his eyes and pulled her closer, blind to the other figures crowding round them. “You’re not the only one who wants this tribe to survive, Sväla.” He coughed, filling his beard with blood. “There’s no way back now. I don’t need your visions to see that. Our only hope is you, and your obsession with Sigvald.” He gripped her shoulder briefly, as the colour drained from his face. “I only pray you’re right, witch.”

  Sväla laid the shaman’s head gently back down on the floor. “I’m right,” she replied, but her heart was pounding as she looked up at the others.

  They were all drenched in blood and panting heavily. She realised that only Svärd, Valdür and three others were left standing. She looked past their anguished faces and saw that some of those who had fallen were still alive, clutching at ragged holes in their throats and gurgling horribly.

  “Quick,” she snapped, rushing to the nearest one and hammering her knife into his chest. “End their suffering.”

  The others followed suit and for a few seconds the room became a grim abattoir as the Norscans butchered their own kin.

  Sväla stood up with a look of fierce determination on her face. “None of this will be in vain,” she said, glaring at the survivors. Then she looked around and saw another curtain on the far side of the room. “We must keep looking. If the palace is still inhabited, Sigvald may yet be here.”

  Valdür shook his head and waved at the groaning shaman and the mounds of corpses. “We’re done, Sväla,” he muttered, his words full of bitterness. “If two of Sigvald’s servants can do this to us, how could we ever hope to kill the prince himself?”

  “Kill Sigvald?” came a voice from the shadows.

  Sväla whirled around with her knife raised. There was a young girl sitting at the far end of the drawing room, half hidden in shadow. She was curled up, cat-like, on a plump, damask settee, wearing nothing but a few straps of leather and a long, amethyst necklace. Sväla frowned and stepped closer. The girl was unusually beautiful, but, more than that, she was strangely familiar. “I know you,” she whispered, edging closer with her knife raised.

  “Wait,” snapped Valdür, hurrying to Sväla’s side. “She might be—” As the old warrior saw the girl’s face he stumbled to a halt and left his sentence unfinished.

  Sväla looked back at him and saw that he had shifted his gaze to the rug-strewn floor and seemed to be blushing.

  As the others approached to look at the girl, they began to act just as strangely—lowering their weapons and covering their mouths in shock.

  Sväla looked back at the girl, trying desperately to place her. Her face was freckled, fair
and surrounded by a tumbling mass of dark, glossy locks; and as the Norscans approached, she pursed her lips in a sullen, blood-red pout.

  “Who are you?” demanded Sväla, jabbing her knife in the girl’s direction.

  “Who am I? I’m Freydís, Princess of the Gilded Palace. Who are you might be a more pertinent question. Who are you to come in here and murder my only distraction?” The girl waved to an object on the table in front of her. “What use is a tune without a dancer?”

  Sväla saw that she was indicating a small, skeletal creature. It looked like the desiccated remains of a particularly ugly, spiny lizard, which was busily hammering away at its own ribs with a silver hammer, like some kind of rotting glockenspiel. Sväla realised that this was the source of the repetitive tune that had been rattling around her head since she had first entered the room.

  She strode towards the thing and swept it onto the floor with a curse.

  The creature shrieked and scampered from view, leaving a trail of spindly bones as it went.

  “We’re Sigvald’s doom,” cried Sväla. “We’re the progeny of his depraved lusts, come to wash away our shame with his blood.” Sväla’s face flushed with colour and her lips trembled with rage. “We are the Fallen, Freydís. The emissaries of a cursed nation, come for our errant son.” She stepped closer to the girl and glared at her. “We are Sigvald’s executioners.”

  The girl smirked and rose to her feet with a sinuous grace. “And just how do you intend to execute my husband, peasant?”

  Sväla’s cheeks flushed even darker. “This is his wife!” she cried, turning to the others. “Seize her!”

  The men stared back at Sväla as though she were a stranger.

  The young girl laughed as she stepped past Sväla to Valdür’s side.

  The old man dropped to his knees and clasped the hand she offered him, planting a fervent kiss on her pale skin. At the sight of this, the others rushed forwards and did the same, prostrating themselves before Freydís’ beauty.