[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Énka threw back his hood, allowing the moonlight to glitter over his long, piscine face. He stood up in his saddle, straining to see over the horse’s mane and tilted his head on one side, fixing one of his round, glassy eyes on the horizon. “Too far,” he replied, sitting back down and rummaging in his robes for something. He dropped several, twitching shapes onto the snow before nodding in satisfaction and holding up a blind, featherless bird. The fidgeting creature was covered in dark, inky sigils that spiralled out from the sockets where its eyes should have been. Muttering under his breath, the sorcerer had another rummage in his robes and drew out a small jar of black paste. He unscrewed the lid and plunged in his finger. The paste sizzled and steamed on his scales as he withdrew some and smeared it across one of his eyeballs with an unpleasant squeaking sound. Then he dunked two fingers into the viscous paste and jabbed them into the bird’s eye sockets. “This should help,” he said, leaning back in his saddle and hurling the bird into the air. The pink, dimpled ball span through the snowflakes and landed a few feet away with a soft plump.

  Énka looked at the new hole in the snow with obvious disappointment, then turned to the baron with an apologetic shrug.

  Just as Schüler was about to ask for an explanation, the tiny bird emerged in a spray of white powder and fluttered off towards the Gilded Palace, weaving through the air in a series of wild loops and lurches.

  Énka applauded and then covered the eye that wasn’t smeared with black paste. He swayed from side to side in his saddle in time with the bird’s erratic movements. Then he nodded eagerly. “Yes, I see. It’s an army.”

  The baron’s frown deepened and he raised a hand to his eyes, trying to see for himself. “An army? Are you sure? It looks more like some kind of lake.”

  The sorcerer shook his head. “It’s an army. Well, if you could call it that.” He wiped the paste from his eye and turned to face Schüler. “It’s vast,” he said, still shaking his head. “More like a whole country. There must be tens of thousands of people.”

  Schüler looked back at the ragged company of monsters and purple-clad knights behind them. Barely half of Sigvald’s army had survived to make the return journey; less than five hundred of the Decadent Host remained. “Then we’re doomed,” he muttered. “Mord Huk will butcher us all and take the palace for himself.” The colour drained from his gaunt face.

  Oddrún was stood a few feet away, watching the exchange. He had remained silent and morose for the duration of their march south, refusing to answer any more questions, but at the sight of the army, he nodded in agreement. “It’s the prince who Mord Huk wants. When he finds out that Sigvald is already dead, his anger will be tenfold. Killing us will be a small consolation, I imagine, but then the Gilded Palace will—”

  “No,” interrupted Énka, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not Mord Huk.”

  “What?” exclaimed the baron. “Who then?”

  “They’re Northmen,” replied the sorcerer, fingering the last of the paste from his eye. “Thousands upon thousands of primitive Northmen, led by a small, weedy-looking woman.” He shrugged. “She’s covered in blue tattoos and is carrying a knife.”

  “Northmen?” grumbled Oddrún, loping through the snow towards Énka’s horse. There was an unusual note of emotion in the giant’s voice as he looked down at the sorcerer. “Norscans?”

  “What else did you see?” demanded Schüler, barging past Oddrún and grabbing Énka’s robes.

  Énka’s face remained expressionless as he strained to free himself from the baron’s grip. “There was someone else with them,” he replied, wrenching himself free and sitting upright in his saddle. He took a second to smooth down his robes before continuing. “Riding next to the tattooed woman was Sigvald’s wife.”

  The baron gasped and looked out at the distant line of figures. “They have the princess?” He leant forward in his saddle, peering through the snow, his voice filled with disgust and disbelief. “A tribe of stinking Northmen have Freydís?”

  His weariness evaporated and he turned to the bizarre collection of creatures waiting behind him. Many of them were the soldiers he had led north, all those months earlier. Their bodies had been wrenched into vile new shapes, but their loyalty remained. As the baron turned towards them they lurched closer, eager for his command. He studied their distorted, nightmarish faces and felt a rush of excitement. The prince’s surgeons and sorcerers had made monsters of them and, for the first time, the baron felt glad. Towering, bat-like wings rose up from their backs, along with a colourful forest of claws and tentacles. Beyond them were the pale-skinned nymphs, with their oily black eyes and their crab-like claws, and scattered through the whole army were the few remaining knights, clad in their etched, lilac armour and still clutching their battered swords.

  “Norscans are only men,” spat the baron. “They’re no match for us. No match for the Decadent Host.” He rose up in his saddle and lifted his sword to the sea of expectant faces. “Your home awaits you!” he cried. “The Gilded Palace! Where you can resume your work. Where you can explore every pleasure you can conceive of, in tribute to our fallen prince.” He waved his sword at the advancing host. “But these…” His voice trembled with rage and for a moment he seemed too furious to continue. “These primitive men would stop us. They would take the Gilded Palace for their own!”

  A chorus of bestial cries rippled through the army.

  The baron nodded eagerly at his men. He was not sure that many of them even had the capacity to understand him, but his tone of indignation seemed enough.

  “Not only that!” he cried, pulling frantically at his beard. “They have enslaved the Geld-Prince’s widow!”

  The monsters and knights howled even louder, lifting their segmented limbs over their heads and rattling their swords on their shields.

  “We must cleanse this filth from Sigvald’s kingdom!” cried Schüler, with his horse rearing beneath him. “We must reclaim our home!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Sväla came to a halt in the knee-deep snow and surveyed the army rushing towards her. “Doesn’t Sigvald see that he’s being surrounded?” she asked, turning to the armoured figure beside her.

  “Perhaps not,” replied Princess Freydís, her face hidden behind the grille of an ornate helmet. “Perhaps he’s focussed all his attention on you, you lucky girl.”

  Behind the two women stood the countless ranks of the Fallen and before them was the Decadent Host. Its lurid banners were unmistakable, as were the strange, manifold forms of Sigvald’s devotees: cherry-coloured bipedal mounts with elongated, tubular snouts, carrying a grotesque carnival of winged, pale-skinned nymphs and proud knights clad in baroque, lilac-coloured armour. The gaudy monsters were charging towards them through the snow, with their pennants trailing and their armour glinting in the moonlight; but they seemed utterly unaware that a third group was emerging from the storm.

  A dark, crimson line was spreading across the horizon to the west, slowly encircling Sigvald’s troops from behind. It was clearly another army, but in contrast to the colour and din of the Decadent Host, these soldiers were sombre and quiet, spreading across the frozen wastes like a pool of blood.

  “Mord Huk,” spat the princess, her voice filled with disdain.

  “What?” asked Sväla.

  “Mord Huk. He’s the dog-brained oaf who has stolen great tracts of our land,” explained Freydís, straightening her back and raising her chin. The princess had donned a suit of close-fitting steel, and she made an impressive sight as she levelled a rapier at the approaching army. “This is the moron my husband abandoned me for. He has something Sigvald wants. Some worthless toy, I imagine, but desirable enough for the Geld-Prince to abandon me to my death.”

  “They’re enemies?” asked Sväla hopefully, studying the two approaching lines of soldiers.

  “Of course,” laughed the princess. “These are the Shadowlands, my little savage. Enemies are all we have.”

 
Sväla glared at the princess, and gripped her knife a little tighter. “Savage I may be, but I’ll hold you to your word. Sigvald cannot be allowed to live.”

  Freydís nodded. “Don’t worry yourself on that score, peasant. Just get me close to the fickle bastard. I’ll make sure you know how to kill him.” She looked out at the approaching army. “Or do the job myself.”

  Svärd emerged from the storm and nodded at his mother. As he addressed her, his eyes were gleaming with excitement. “Those with the best weapons are in the front lines, as you ordered.” He could not refrain from smiling as he looked at the forest of javelins and axes. “Even now, our numbers are incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. Nothing could stand against us and win.”

  As she looked at her naive young son, Sväla felt the absence of Valdür more than ever. With the leathery old warrior at her side, she would have felt a hundred times more confident of victory. Even the menacing presence of Ungaur the Blessed would have been a comfort as she faced this final challenge. Her mind was suddenly filled with the faces of all those who had been sacrificed to reach this point. Almost all of the chieftains and elders were gone. Only the mad old witch, Ürsüla, was still alive, and Sväla had long since stopped listening to her interminable ramblings.

  She drew her knife and gave her son a stern nod. There was no room for doubt. Victory was their only option. Even if it took the lives of every man, woman and child, they must kill Sigvald. The crusade could not be in vain.

  “Give the signal,” she said.

  Svärd strode out in front of the army and turned to face them. Then he took a whalebone horn from his furs and let out a long, wavering note that echoed around the valleys and peaks.

  All along the line, Norscans raised their own horns and answered the call, filling the storm with droning music.

  Then, as one, the Fallen advanced.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The daemon sat calmly in the centre of the road, waiting for him. Its white robes stood out in stark contrast to the black rock, as did the nest of pale limbs huddled beside it, clutching a long scroll of parchment.

  Sigvald reluctantly slowed his pace to a trot and finally came to a halt a few feet away, his face flushed with exertion and elation.

  Belus Pül rose to greet him with a slight bow, then turned to its scribe. “The divine being rejoiced in its child’s return from the unearthly realm. It was gratifying to see that its faith had not been in—”

  The daemon’s words were cut short, twisted into a wordless grunt, as Sigvald strode forwards and jammed his new rapier into its stomach.

  Belus looked down in horror to see a dark red stain spreading across its white habit. “What has happened?” it gasped, frantically shaking its head. “How could—?”

  “The sword was a gift,” Sigvald replied with a playful grin. He wrenched it free and allowed the daemon to collapse in a shower of blood. “Its edge is keen enough even for you, Belus.”

  The daemon’s scribe scuttled back in fear, scattering parchments as it went.

  “I see you’ve released me from my bonds,” said Sigvald, noticing that his bronze torque had vanished from the daemon’s arm.

  Belus Pül curled up into a foetal position and began to wail.

  Sigvald dropped to one knee and whispered in the daemon’s ear. “No matter. I think our friendship has reached a natural end, don’t you?” He nodded to the shimmering, bloodstained rapier. “I’ve made a new allegiance, Belus.” He chuckled. “You might say I move in different circles now.”

  The daemon’s wailing turned into a furious screech and one of its hands shot out towards Sigvald’s throat.

  The prince was too fast. He rocked back with preternatural speed and gripped the daemon’s wrist. “Maybe you’ll die,” he whispered, looking at the pool of blood spreading across the road, “like some wretched, feckless mortal.”

  Then he loosed his grip and stood up. As he stepped back from the groaning daemon, Sigvald wiped a few speckles of blood from his armour, frowning slightly until he was sure his armour was clean.

  “What a place to spend your final hours, though,” he cried, waving at the fantastical landscape that surrounded them. Shimmering lights blurred the boundary between earth and sky and diaphanous hosts whirled above them, riding to battle across heavens. Sigvald grinned as he looked back at the bleeding daemon. “And the pain should be wonderful.”

  As he turned to leave, the prince looked briefly at the scribe. “Sigvald returned from the Immaterial Realm,” he intoned, in a mocking, singsong voice, “reborn and renewed. The prince repaid his former patron with the gift of a new, exquisite sensation and then headed south, eager to claim his prize.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Screams rang out. Whether in pain or ecstasy, it was impossible to tell, but Baron Schüler reined in his horse and cursed bitterly at the delay.

  He was still half a mile from the Norscans, but the right flank of his army was disintegrating. The garish ranks were collapsing beneath a tide of crimson and brass and long, grinding fangs.

  “What’s this?” he cried, rising up in his saddle and straining to see through the carnage.

  The snowstorm was suddenly alive with fleet, lupine shapes, hurling themselves into battle with a chorus of barks and snarls. Schüler drew his sword as he saw that one of them was powering straight towards him, carving a path through Sigvald’s troops with astonishing speed. As it approached, he saw it more clearly. It was a hound, but unlike any he had ever seen before. The creature was almost as large as his horse and covered in red, reptilian scales. Something flashed beneath its slavering jaws and Schüler realised that the hound was wearing a thick brass collar.

  “Keep moving!” he howled, looking around at his men and waving his sword at the Norscans up ahead.

  It was useless.

  The alabaster-skinned daemonettes forgot all sense of order as they turned to face the hounds. Any hope of advance was lost as they abandoned themselves to the equal pleasures of killing and dying.

  The baron groaned in dismay as he looked at the distant line of Northmen. “Freydís,” he whispered, extending his left arm towards Sväla’s army, as though he could pluck the princess from the distant ranks of figures.

  “Baron!” cried Énka, grabbing the reins of Schüler’s horse and dragging the animal to one side.

  Schüler just had time to raise his sword as the snarling hound launched itself at his head.

  Pain exploded in his face as the creature crashed into him. Plates of sharpened metal had been grafted onto its scaly hide and as Schüler flew back from his horse he felt his nose disintegrate with a crunch of breaking bone.

  The baron lurched up from the snow in a fountain of blood and curses. He still had hold of his sword and levelled it at the snarling monster as it turned and padded back towards him.

  As the baron crouched in readiness, with blood pooling around him, a column of pink flames roared past his head and slammed into the hound, enveloping its crimson flesh in liquid, lurid fire.

  The hound stumbled to a halt, snorting and sniffing the air, but showing no signs of pain. Then it singled out the source of the fire and bolted forwards with a furious bellow.

  Énka crumpled into the snow as the beast tore into him, but within seconds the hound ceased its snarling and lifted its head in confusion.

  There was no sorcerer beneath its huge paws and neither was there a single drop of blood.

  The monster pawed at the snow in confusion, then stiffened and dropped to its knees as the baron rammed his blade down between its shoulder blades, pinning it to the ground.

  As the monster thrashed wildly in an attempt to free itself, the baron grabbed its steel mane of spikes and began to hack at its throat with a long knife drawn from his belt.

  “Magic has no effect,” gasped Énka reappearing from somewhere and shaking his head in dismay. “They must have been sent by Khorne himself. Mord Huk has called on his god to avenge the attack on his fo
rtress.”

  He grabbed the baron’s arm and wrenched him away from the thrashing monster. “You’ll never kill it!” he cried.

  The baron reeled away from the hound, rocking back on his heels as he tried to straighten his bleeding nose. “Then we must advance,” he said in a nasal grunt.

  He looked around for his horse and dragged himself up into the saddle.

  “Baron!” cried the sorcerer, as the crimson beast hauled itself up from the ground and rounded on him.

  “Freydís,” muttered the baron as he kicked his horse into motion, disappearing in a cloud of snow and leaving his army to its fate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Norscans howled as they charged through the snow. Thousands of voices, raised in unison, echoed across the Wastes. The Fallen had abandoned their homes and endured horrors they would never forget, all for this one chance. Rage, grief and hope poured out of them as they raced towards the enemy.

  “He’s coming for you,” cried Sväla as she ran, lifting her voice above the cacophony. She pointed her knife to a single figure riding out to meet them.

  Freydís let out a bitter laugh. “He wouldn’t abandon his army for my sake.” She strained forward, peering at the approaching knight. “I’m not sure that’s even him.”

  Sväla was about to reply when she noticed that the deafening war cries were now mingled with a new sound: screams.

  Far over on the left flank of the army the charge had already stalled. The snow was falling as thick as ever, and it was hard to be sure what was happening, but Sväla could just make out tall, crimson shapes, lurching through her men and moving with incredible speed.

  As the left flank collapsed, the army lost all its momentum. Disorder and confusion spread quickly through the ranks as the Norscans abandoned their charge and swung round to defend their screaming kin. The monsters’ attack seemed utterly without logic or cohesion: the tall, red shapes leapt from one victim to another in a frenzy of bloodlust, hacking at the Norscans with no sense of tactics or control.