[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “The curse!” cried Sväla, her voice liquid and raw. She tried to rise from Svärd’s lap and levelled her knife at the prince. “Everything stems from him! This is it! This is what we’ve been dying for! He’s blinding you with sorcery.”

  Finally, some of the Norscans lurched into action, flinging spears and knives at the prince and rushing forwards. Many more stayed their hands, and some even dragged their kinsmen to the ground, plunging knives into their backs with strange, hungry smiles on their faces.

  Sigvald shoved Freydís behind his back and adopted an en garde position, still grinning as they charged towards him.

  The fighting was fast and furious. The Fallen had finally laid hands on the source of their shame and they howled victoriously as they crashed into him. Sigvald’s rapier flashed back and forth, sending dozens of them spinning to the ground without any apparent effort. Despite his skill though, it looked for a moment as though the sheer volume of them might overwhelm him. Then Mord Huk’s knights surged forwards in a counter-attack and the scene descended into utter confusion. Something seemed to have driven the knights into a frenzy. Those who had stripped away their armour and begun to mutate ploughed into their brothers and the Norscans, giggling hysterically as they fought. Others let out a mournful battle cry and charged into the main body of Sväla’s army. Behind them, a huge shape was stamping through the lightning-charged storm, its vast bulk shrouded in gouts of steam and pulsing with unearthly lights.

  The waves of Norscans finally overwhelmed Sigvald’s defenders and the whole tumult collapsed backwards, burying the prince beneath a mound of toiling limbs and grinding armour.

  As the figures collapsed on top of each other, more and more of them seemed to be infected with Sigvald’s lunacy. Hundreds of the knights had now sprouted elongated, plum-coloured limbs and fluttering, scaled wings, and as they revelled in their new forms, their movements became increasingly frenzied.

  As soldiers tumbled and rolled across the bloodstained snow, the hulking shape emerged from the storm with a rumbling, lowing sound. It was a colossal bull-like creature with a hide of riveted brass and steel. There was a single, bloody tusk mounted on its muzzle and as its gore-encrusted hooves crunched over the fallen knights, liquid fire dripped from its joints, revealing glimpses of a diabolical furnace in its chest. The same malevolent light poured from its eyes, flashing across swords and shields as it entered the clearing.

  Mounted on its back was a great, armour-clad brute, wearing a blood-splattered brass skull.

  Mord Huk had arrived.

  “Sigvald!” he growled, raising a jagged, two-handed sword over his head and waving the iron-clad beast forwards. Dark currents of power coursed around the blade as he pointed it at the pile of knights, Norscans and freakish shapes. “Show yourself!” he bellowed.

  At the sound of Mord Huk’s voice, some of the less demented combatants backed away, cowering at the sight of the approaching figure.

  Sigvald dragged himself from the thrashing bodies and staggered back against the men stood nearest to him.

  Axes and spears were lowered as the soldiers paused to watch the encounter.

  Sigvald reeled back and forth for a few moments, shaking his mane of golden hair and trying to clear his head. Then he stumbled to a halt, sensing the vast presence looming over him.

  His eyes widened at the sight of the glinting brass skull.

  Then he let his head rock back on his shoulders and emitted a long, wailing moan of pleasure. As his cry rang out across the battlefield the lightning flared brighter, drenching the soldiers in a sapphire glow. “Finally!” cried Sigvald, fixing his gaze on the helmet. “It’s mine!”

  Mord Huk gave no reply as he climbed down from his hellish mount and stomped across the corpse-strewn ground, gripping the hilt of his long blade in both hands as he prepared to attack. His blood-red armour was as thick and jagged as his soldiers’ and scored with dozens of foul, pulsing runes. Every inch of his eight-foot frame was covered in dried blood and deep within his helmet shone a pair of feral, hate-filled eyes.

  Sigvald’s head began to twitch slightly as he watched Mord Huk approach. The brass skull was reflected in his eyes and his fingers flexed in anticipation as he prepared to fight.

  Mord Huk let out a feral grunt, drew back his monstrous blade and swung it at Sigvald’s chest.

  Sigvald parried with a fluid, casual twirl of his rapier and Mord Huk stumbled across the clearing, propelled by the force of his own attack. Sigvald made no attempt to strike back. He closed his eyes instead and turned his face up to the falling snow.

  Mord Huk flew back at him with a snarling grunt, thrusting his blade at the prince’s stomach.

  Just in time, Sigvald opened his eyes and swerved out of harm’s way, playfully rattling his rapier along Mord Huk’s sword as it rushed past him. “I can’t bear to see this end,” he muttered, looking around at the circle of expectant faces. “After everything I’ve achieved to get here, I feel as though—”

  His words turned into an explosion of breath as Mord Huk hammered the hilt of his sword into the prince’s back, sending him crashing to his knees.

  “There are more gods than yours,” grunted the knight as he drew back his crackling blade to strike again.

  Sigvald rolled to one side, avoiding the full force of the next blow, but the blade sliced through the pauldron of his gold armour, tearing through the metal with a nerve-jangling screech. As he tumbled away, a thin arc of blood sprayed up the side of his face.

  “What’s this?” Sigvald gasped, touching the blood as he climbed to his feet and backed away from his opponent.

  “Punishment,” grunted Mord Huk, holding up his serrated blade so that Sigvald could see the lines of power rippling over the filthy metal.

  “Magic?” cried Sigvald, clutching his wound in shock, as he realised that his armour was not going to heal itself.

  Mord Huk shook his head as he struck again. “A Blood Blessing.”

  Sigvald parried again, but now there was doubt in his eyes. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and unexpected. As he deflected Mord Huk’s blow and sent his great bulk stumbling into the onlookers, Sigvald launched himself at the knight’s back. The pair of them were briefly picked out in a flash of lightning; locked in a desperate embrace, before vanishing from view.

  For a few seconds the ranks of bloody soldiers stared at each other in confusion, then they poured into the void left by the two duelling champions, screaming and howling as they tore into each other.

  As Sigvald and Mord Huk careered through the storm, Sigvald’s laughter rose above the sound of thunder and clashing blades. Wherever he passed, the fight descended into mayhem. At the sight of the prince’s gleeful acrobatics, the soldiers turned on whoever was nearest, giggling maniacally as their bodies began to writhe and transform.

  Neither of the two champions seemed able to break the deadlock. For over an hour they crashed and lunged through the battle, and each time Sigvald was revealed, the division between the two armies became less clear, as they broke ranks and began to change. Thick crimson armour was replaced by engraved lilac steel, or torn away completely to reveal pale, naked flesh.

  Finally, just as Sigvald was beginning to tire, a tall, hooded figure emerged from the writhing shadows; punching and shouldering his way through the battle and making a direct line for the pair of champions.

  Neither Sigvald nor his opponent noticed the gangly figure, but as the prince collapsed to his knees, utterly exhausted, the giant raced past him and slammed into Mord Huk’s chest, sending them both toppling backwards into the snow.

  Mord Huk let out a furious rumble of pain and cracked the hilt of his sword against his attacker’s head.

  There was a dull crunch, and the newcomer’s hood sagged at an odd angle, but there was no trace of blood and his grip remained firm, pinning Mord Huk to the ground.

  Sigvald climbed to his feet with a groan and grabbed his rapier from the corpse-strewn slush. As he recognise
d the shape wrestling with his opponent, a relieved smile returned to his face. “Oddrún,” he said, stumbling towards him.

  As Mord Huk struggled to free himself from beneath Oddrún, he landed blow after blow on the giant’s hunched, robed body. The sizzling blade sliced through the sackcloth, cutting deep into Oddrún’s back, but the chancellor showed no sign of pain and tightened his grip with every cut.

  Sigvald strode forwards and sliced down with his rapier.

  Still containing Mord Huk’s snorting, feral head, the brass skull span off through the storm.

  Oddrún collapsed onto the headless corpse.

  Sigvald sprinted after the helmet, quickly disappearing into the shifting ranks of soldiers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Which way?” Muttered Svärd, wiping the snow from his face.

  Sväla looked up from the makeshift litter, her head reeling with pain and blood loss. For a minute she struggled to remember what had happened, then she saw the long trail of blood and the rows of desolate faces trudging after her.

  Of course.

  Everything was lost.

  The battle had continued for what seemed like an eternity, but after the first few hours the slaughter had become utterly senseless. Allegiances had been abandoned, along with tactics, logic and sanity. She had tried desperately to maintain some kind of order, but as soon as she was wounded, Sväla had been powerless to stem the madness. As Svärd dragged her away from Sigvald, she had seen the Fallen transformed by the Geld-Prince’s sorcery: half of them into a raving mob, and the rest into a grotesque, gibbering menagerie. The figures stumbling after her through the snow were the few who had hung on to any semblance of reason. Of the original, vast host, there were fewer than a thousand survivors. She wondered vaguely when Sigvald’s creatures would hunt them down, but her thoughts were too shattered to question anything very deeply and she simply shook her head.

  “Just keep the mountains at your back,” she replied in a thin, rasping voice.

  Svärd grimaced and stumbled on, dragging the litter behind him.

  Sväla nervously ran a hand over her throat. The old witch, Ürsüla, had smeared a foul black paste over the wound. It had slowed the bleeding but tripled the pain. She wondered if it would have any other effects. The Wolf’s blessings were not always predictable. Still, if it wasn’t for Ürsüla she would be long dead; Sväla had no doubt of that.

  At the memory of the old woman she searched her out in the crowd, wondering how she was still alive. Warriors and chieftains had died in their thousands since they left Norsca, but the frail old woman was still stumping determinedly through the snow, clad in her strange mantle of sticks, bones and sealskin. Her short, silver hair was matted with blood but her vivid green eyes had lost none of their humour. Sväla noticed that the witch was watching her and chomping thoughtfully on her pipe.

  “I was betrayed,” Sväla croaked defensively, meeting the old woman’s eye.

  “Not by me,” replied the witch with a laugh that quickly became a wracking cough.

  “Ungaur’s statue gave me a name, but you explained the legend,” said Sväla, attempting to sit up. “You must have known it would all end like this.” She pointed her knife at the smirking woman. “Your mud dolls told you everything. You must have foreseen that we could never defeat Sigvald. You must have seen that we could never escape the curse.”

  The witch sucked on her pipe and let the smoke pour down through her shrivelled nose. “Defeat Sigvald? I never said anything about that.” She shrugged. “I suppose I did say something about you leading us to victory though.”

  “Yes,” cried Sväla, her voice cracking. “That’s exactly what you said!” A little colour crept back into her tattooed cheeks as she recalled their first meeting. “Why did you say that?” She waved her knife at the pitiful wrecks stumbling after them. “Look at what you’ve done. Everyone’s dead, or worse.”

  The old woman simply grinned and took another drag on her pipe. Then she turned away, her tiny frame disappearing quickly in the limping ranks of survivors.

  “Ürsüla!” cried Sväla, rising furiously from the litter.

  Pain erupted in her throat and she collapsed back with a groan.

  “Mother?” asked Svärd, pausing to look down at her.

  “Keep going,” she snapped. “Keep the mountains at your back.”

  As the litter bounced along the brittle snow, Sväla’s head swam horribly, filled with visions of slaughter and perversion. Then, with a shock, she realised that she must have fallen asleep. The mountains behind them were suddenly further away and the golden castle was now little more than a large star, flickering in the snowstorm. Ignoring the pain, she rolled onto her side and looked past Svärd’s legs to see what was ahead of them.

  Her heart sank.

  Nothing was familiar. All she could see for miles around was jagged peaks and vast, featureless tracts of snow. How would they ever find the coast? She shivered violently. Svärd had wrapped her in furs, but the cold was persistent, leeching through her wiry limbs and spreading deep into her bones. Despair filled her and her head dropped. As she looked down, she noticed the two wedding rings, still knotted to her finger. At the sight of the battered metal, something stirred in her chest; a tiny flicker of anger. “Völtar,” she croaked. “Look at what we’ve done in your name. Look at what we’ve sacrificed. How can you just abandon us?”

  There was no reply and she collapsed with a bitter curse, clamping her eyes shut and willing the world away.

  After an hour or so of silent trudging she noticed that Svärd was muttering to himself.

  “What’s that?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

  “There’s something moving about in the snow, up ahead,” he replied, sounding hesitant. “Some kind of dog.”

  Sväla gasped and sat up, turning to look past him again.

  “I see it!” she cried, slapping her hands on the litter. “It’s not a dog, it’s a wolf.”

  He looked down at her in confusion. “How could it survive out here, miles from anything?”

  “Exactly,” she said, with growing excitement in her voice. “No normal creature could.”

  He shook his head, still confused. “Then what—?”

  “Move faster,” interrupted Sväla, slapping her hands on the litter again. “Catch it up!”

  The youth groaned and tried to drag a bit more speed from his aching limbs.

  As the litter bounced across the snow, Sväla fixed her eyes on the fleeting shape and began to nod. “It’s him,” she muttered. “It’s him.”

  Svärd picked up on the excitement in Sväla’s voice and increased his pace further. Soon, they had left the others behind as they raced after the wolf.

  After a few minutes, the wolf padded up a small incline and sat down, silhouetted against the storm and looking down at the approaching Norscans with a calm, regal gaze.

  As Svärd dragged his mother towards the hill, the storm worsened, sending great swelling banks of snow around the creature, briefly obscuring it from view. By the time the flurry had cleared, Svärd had dragged the litter halfway up the slope, leaving them close enough to see that the wolf had been replaced by something very different.

  As they reached the summit, they saw two figures waiting for them. One was tall, slender and dressed in white, but the other was hard to make out. It was crumpled on the ground in a heap of twitching limbs.

  “Finally, the deity laid eyes on its most beloved prophet,” said the tall figure, as Svärd stumbled to a confused halt.

  The two Norscans stared at the white-robed figure in horror. Even without the black horns sprouting from its head, they would have known the creature for what it was: a daemon. Such a foul, aberrant air surrounded it that Svärd backed away and raised his javelin in fear.

  Sväla was equally panicked, but maintained enough composure to notice that the daemon was horribly wounded. There was a dark gash in its belly that had stained its robes with steaming, bla
ck blood. Despite its beatific smile, the thing was clearly in pain, clutching at the wound with one of its slender hands.

  “What are you?” Sväla croaked, trying to quell the terror in her voice.

  The daemon turned to its companion and said: “Belus Pül was filled with pity at the sight of its prophet. The poor soul could not even recognise her own master.”

  Svärd let out a curse as he saw the daemon’s scribe. The naked, faceless creature was sitting in its nest of spider-like limbs, just a few feet behind Belus. Only a small black hook, sunk deep into its side, alluded to its former existence.

  “We need to leave,” gasped Svärd, grabbing the litter.

  “Wait!” snapped Sväla, raising her hand. She still had her eyes fixed on Belus as she sat up. “What do you mean, ‘prophet’?”

  “It seemed strange that the girl could not recognise her own god,” replied Belus, stooping over the scribe to ensure it had correctly captured the inflections of its voice, “after being so carefully guided by it for several months.”

  Sväla shook her head in confusion. The prim, formal tones did sound oddly familiar. To her horror, she realised that the voice reminded her of the visions that had originally driven her to action. Then she remembered a more recent incident: the wolf that had led her to Sigvald’s floating palace had sounded just the same.

  “You?” she said, with a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach. “You’re the one who led me north?” She looked in disgust at the daemon’s angelic face. “Why?”

  “Few mortals can comprehend the workings of a divine mind,” replied the daemon, still facing the large ear implanted in its scribe’s head, “but the deity endeavoured to explain to the prophet that its child, Sigvald the Magnificent, had committed the ultimate betrayal.” The daemon paused and shook its head. “He had become boring. And the deity had been forced to seek a way to rouse the prince from his spiritual torpor; several ways in fact.”