[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “I don’t understand,” said Sväla, shaking her head furiously. “I came north to rid my people of a terrible curse.”

  Belus winced, clutching at its bloody robes in obvious pain, then assumed its vacuous smile once more and continued. “The deity explained to its earnest young seer that games and stratagems are essential to keep a celestial mind amused. Cursing the prophet’s tribe had been a simple task, and even waiting centuries for the plan to come to fruition had been no real chore.”

  The colour drained from Sväla’s face. “You cursed us?”

  The daemon maintained its innocent smile. “The prophet was awed by her master’s power, but the deity was as humble as ever, explaining that a curse was a simple matter for a being of such infinite power. Filling the girl’s head with visions had been even easier, and then the prophet’s wonderful determination had ensured the rest.”

  Sväla let out a despairing moan and looked back at the approaching survivors. “It was all a lie then? Just because you wanted Sigvald to do something exciting, I’ve led my people to their doom?”

  The daemon continued smiling.

  As Sväla stared at the creature something strange happened to her vision. The snowstorm began to blur and fade and the daemon gradually vanished behind a crowd of spectral figures. She realised the daemon was beguiling her with another vision and shook her head fiercely, trying to escape the influx of scenes and faces. It was no use: as her nostrils filled with the scent of burning herbs she saw a vast ocean spread out before her. “The Sea of Chaos,” she muttered, damping her hands around her head.

  As she watched the tumbling pewter waves, she saw a small fleet of longships slicing towards a rocky coastline. “Norsca,” she said, unable to suppress her excitement. She was witnessing the homecoming of her people. The image shifted again as the burning smell grew: she saw Svärd and the others returning to their mead halls and wattle huts, exhausted but alive. The setting changed again, and she saw her son leading them to battle against the neighbouring tribes. “Victory,” she breathed, as she saw Svärd presenting a severed head to his baying warriors. “The curse is lifted.”

  The reek of smoke grew even stronger and Sväla was overcome by a fit of coughing. The pain in her throat exploded once more and the visions fell away, returning her to the hilltop.

  Standing a few feet away was the source of the smell. The old witch had climbed up the slope and was drawing deep on her pipe, frowning as her eyes flicked back and forth from Sväla to the daemon.

  “Ürsüla,” cried Sväla.

  “You’re being offered a choice,” replied the old woman, revealing her fulvous teeth in a grin.

  Belus Pül narrowed its eyes at the sight of the decrepit witch, but did not acknowledge her. “The brave young prophet saw a chance to ensure the survival of her people. All she needed to do was dedicate herself utterly to her master and the curse would immediately be lifted. She realised that her tribe’s destiny depended entirely on this simple act of devotion.”

  Svärd blanched and looked down at his groaning mother. “Don’t listen,” he cried. “It wants your soul.”

  Sväla looked in confusion from her son to the old witch, then back at the daemon. “I can buy my people’s freedom with my soul?”

  Belus nodded without turning to face her. “The prophet gradually began to grasp the enormous generosity of her god. If she submitted herself to the deity’s sweet embrace, her friends would easily find their way home, and no longer be blighted by ill luck.”

  Sväla’s shoulders dropped. “Then I have no choice.” Her voice was taut with disbelief. “I’ve brought us to the brink of ruin. Damnation is a just reward.”

  Svärd rushed back to her side. “I don’t think you should just—”

  “Let your mother do the thinking,” interrupted Ürsüla, glaring at him.

  Sväla still had her eyes fixed on the daemon. “What must I do?” she whispered.

  Belus Pül raised one of its slender arms and rattled its disparate collection of bangles and rings. “For countless centuries, the Divine One had adopted its children with the most simple rite imaginable: the gift of jewellery. Of course, the objects must always be something of deep, personal significance. So the prophet thought very carefully about what would be her most precious belonging.”

  Sväla nodded sadly and looked down at her two wedding rings. Her eyes filled with tears as the daemon stepped slowly towards her and held out an expectant hand.

  “Surely you can think of something more valuable?” asked Ürsüla, nodding to a slender piece of silver hanging from Sväla’s belt.

  She frowned and looked down at the glittering object, unsure for a moment what it was. So much had happened over the last few months that the horrific events had begun to merge into one. Then, as she studied the silver chain, she noticed the sun and moon device on the clasp and remembered the monster on the island. She suddenly understood why Ürsüla was suggesting that she offer the chain to Belus Pül. It was the chain Svärd had removed from the creature called Olandír: the chain that had kept the daemonic monster utterly powerless.

  She turned to Ürsüla and saw that she was nodding almost imperceptibly.

  But surely, thought Sväla, if the daemon has been my guide it will know about everything—including Olandír and his island prison. Surely it would know the power of the chain? Then she recalled something Ürsüla had said as they sat on the island, surrounded by the strange architecture: “There’s something here that has blocked your visions, Sväla,” she had said. “Something that has come between you and your spirit guide.” Maybe there was a chance then? Maybe the daemon would not recognise the chain? Maybe it would not see the trap? Sväla looked at Ürsüla again, finally understanding: if the daemon wore the chain it might be rendered as powerless as Olandír had been. And with such a creature bound to their will, their escape would be assured.

  “Well, there’s this,” said Sväla, trying to keep her voice steady as she removed the chain and held it out to the daemon. “It belonged to one of my ancestors. I’ve guarded it with my life for as long as I can remember.”

  Belus Pül plucked the chain from her fingers with a triumphant grin, dangled it in front of its nose and took a dainty sniff. Then it draped the links around its arm and prepared to click it in place.

  Just as the daemon was about to clasp the chain shut, it paused and looked directly at Sväla, pursing its lips into a coy smile.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The palace was aflame.

  As Oddrún staggered through the smoke and the raucous crowds, he shook his head in disgust. The creatures’ frenzied movements had left portraits blazing and windows shattered. A few more days of this and the whole building would be destroyed. It was inevitable really, thought the giant, as he struggled through the screaming throng, after Sigvald had incited such passion and corruption. Once they grew bored of the directionless battle, the creatures had turned their grotesque faces towards a new source of amusement: the Gilded Palace. They had lurched and fluttered after the despondent figure of Sigvald, calling out the prince’s name as he trudged through the bloody snow towards home.

  Oddrún entered the long throne room. The tiered balconies were crowded with wailing monsters. They were all locked in a series of embraces—whether amorous or aggressive it was impossible to tell, but the result was the same: great shards of stone were crashing down into the hungry flames and several of the marble pillars had toppled, smashing the beautifully tiled floor into a jagged, fractured mess. The giant maintained his usual, hunched gait, keeping his head down as he wove through the clamour.

  Pale-skinned nymphs were writhing across the throne, but as he climbed to the top of the dais, Oddrún could see no sign of the prince. “Where’s Sigvald?” he asked, grabbing one of the androgynous creatures.

  The daemonette twisted its full, dark lips into a sneer and wrenched itself free, before dropping eagerly back onto its naked, gasping siblings.

  Oddrún cursed
and hurried on, making for the door that led to the prince’s library.

  The atmosphere changed dramatically as he crossed the threshold. The library was almost totally empty and as Oddrún closed the thick, oak door behind him, the orgiastic chorus faded to a muffled hum. The room was no less ruined than the others though. The towering shelves had been emptied, creating a mountain of torn pages and broken spines, and crouching, cat-like at the summit was Sigvald. He was glaring at an object he was clutching in both hands: a filthy brass skull.

  “It’s nothing,” he spat, as the giant clambered up the books towards him.

  Oddrún nodded in reply.

  Sigvald waved at the surrounding carnage. A great hole had been blasted in one wall of the library, filling the room with moonlight and snow. “I’ve scoured every text I could think of and found no mention of the thing.” He rapped his knuckles against the bloodstained brass and it chimed like a bell. “It’s just metal: a thick, stupid lump of metal, moulded to protect a thick, stupid skull. It’s not a conduit, or a talisman or anything that would link one to a god. The baron’s as much of a fool as all the others.” His jaw clenched, as though this disappointment was the most painful of all. “He was completely wrong, Oddrún.”

  The giant still didn’t reply, so Sigvald let out a howl of frustration, lurched to his feet and hurled the skull across the library. It bounced off a bookshelf with a clang and rolled into a corner.

  Oddrún watched in silence as the Geld-Prince dropped back onto the books and clutched his head in his hands.

  “What’s the point of any of it?” groaned the prince. “I have all this power and it’s worth nothing. Nothing!” He looked up at his old friend with his face locked in a grimace. “Tell me, Oddrún—what is the point?” He waved at the ruins of his palace. “Shall I just build and destroy, over and over again, forever, until I can’t even tell the difference?”

  He snatched a page from beneath his feet and crumpled it into a ball, holding it so tightly in his fist that his veins began to throb. As he crushed the paper, a thin whining sound came from the back of his throat and his head began to tremble slightly. “Build and destroy,” he moaned. “Build and destroy.”

  Oddrún climbed a little closer and sat down beside the prince. He prised apart Sigvald’s fingers and removed the paper. “Maybe not,” he said. “You’re free of the daemon’s pact. Maybe we could begin again, even now?”

  Sigvald looked up at the giant with tears in his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re the biggest fool of all!” he cried. “You’re utterly, utterly mad, can’t you see? When will you abandon these pathetic delusions? It’s like a kind of torture, listening to you. You’re pulling my mind apart. Don’t you understand? We could never become mortal again. It’s absurd. Don’t you realise what a lunatic you are?” He waved at the giant’s awkwardly folded body and began to laugh through his tears. “Begin again? You make me seem positively sane!” He clutched his head in his hands again and his laughter became a groan. Then the two of them sat side by side in silence, lost in their own thoughts as the distant sounds of destruction seeped through the door.

  After a while, Sigvald stood up and began climbing down the pile of books. “I’m going to find Freydís and leave,” he muttered. “Come with us, or don’t. Whatever you wish.”

  “She’s already gone,” replied the giant.

  Sigvald paused and looked back at him. “What do you mean, ‘gone’? She wouldn’t go anywhere without me.” A note of hysteria entered his voice. “She hacked her way through a whole army just to reach my side.”

  “The baron took her. One of your captains saw him riding away from the battle. He had the princess strapped to the back of his horse and he was heading south, back to his own kingdom.”

  Sigvald reeled as though he had been slapped. “Schüler? He’s taken Freydís?”

  Oddrún nodded slowly. “He wasn’t a fool, Sigvald: he was a liar. He conned you into a war that he thought you could never win. He knew the skull was worthless, but he thought the quest would be the death of you.” The giant shrugged. “He wanted Freydís, but you were in his way.”

  Sigvald shook his head and looked down at his open palms, as though expecting to see the baron riding across his pale skin. “He tricked me?”

  Oddrún nodded.

  Sigvald’s shoulders started to shake and he began making the strange whining noise again. “Schüler, Schüler, Schüler,” he wailed, still staring at his open hands.

  Oddrún climbed wearily to his feet and went to Sigvald’s side, placing his hands on the prince’s trembling shoulders. “I know you had high hopes for him,” he said.

  Sigvald looked up at the giant with a broad grin. “High hopes. Yes!” He gripped the giant’s arms. “But, by the gods, he’s exceeded all of them!” He threw back his head and laughed so hard that tears flooded from his eyes. “He was lying to me, all that time. Lying. What wonderful, perfect genius!”

  The prince dashed to the ragged hole in the wall and leant out into the raging storm. “Schüler,” he screamed, his eyes blazing with passion, “you’re a genius!”

  “He’s stolen your wife,” gasped Oddrún. “And only because he failed to kill you.”

  “Exactly!” cried Sigvald rounding on the giant. “I knew it!” He levelled a trembling finger at Oddrún. “From the first moment I saw his face, I knew he was special.” He grabbed his sword and shield from the mound of books and clanged them together, filling the library with noise as he danced back and forth. “He was a Southling,” cried Sigvald, rushing towards the giant. “Where exactly did he say he was from?”

  Oddrún shook his head in disbelief. “Why does it matter?”

  “Where was he from?” howled Sigvald, still grinning.

  “I believe he said the city was called Altdorf.”

  “Altdorf,” whispered Sigvald. “What a place that must be.” He looked around at his ruined palace and shook his head. “I’m sick of this hovel,” he said, storming across the room, booting open the door and heading back to the throne room.

  The pandemonium grew as Sigvald reached the dais, clanging his sword against his shield and surveying his new subjects. One whole side of the throne room was now consumed by fire, and hundreds more of the giggling mutants were flooding into the room, eager to join the orgy of destruction. At the sight of Sigvald’s jubilant face they howled in delight and pulled even more of the architecture to the ground: wrenching the masonry apart with their long talons and smashing chairs with their segmented tails.

  Sigvald stood watching for a moment, overwhelmed; revelling in the sight of the gaudy creatures. Through the shattered doorways he glimpsed countless others, crawling and slithering towards him. By the end of the battle he had entranced anyone who could still draw breath, whether Norscan, Khornate or otherwise. He shook his head in amazement. The Decadent Host was more glorious than ever.

  “My children,” he cried, raising his voice above the din. “We’ve outgrown our home.” He waved at the blazing portraits and shattered marble. “These walls have become a prison. We must head south.”

  The creatures exploded into a chorus of ecstatic screams, delighted that the prince was finally addressing them.

  “I’ve learned of a city called Altdorf,” he continued, trying to steady the laughter in his voice. “A city ripe for the taking, where we could indulge even our most inventive desires. And with such a magnificent host at my back,” he waved his sword at the leering creatures, “nothing could stand in my way.”

  A shroud of embers billowed around the prince as he lifted his rapier above his head, transporting his subjects into an even greater frenzy.

  “I am Sigvald the Magnificent!” he cried, laughing wildly as the floor buckled beneath his feet. “Ride with me!”

  EPILOGUE

  Freydís awoke with a start, unsure where she was. Her side ached horribly from lying in a deep drift of snow and her hands and feet were tightly bound. As she peered into the dark she re
alised her head was covered in sackcloth. She shook herself, but the coarse material remained fixed firmly in place. Panic gripped her. Had Mord Huk taken her? She thought back to the battle, but after her embrace with Sigvald, nothing was clear. She could remember the Norscans’ last charge, but then nothing.

  “Sigvald?” she whispered, trying to stand. Her muscles were cramped and frozen and she toppled to her knees with a curse. “Is anybody there?” she cried, enraged by her own fear. There was no reply but the wind, howling across the ice. As she struggled into a sitting position, the hood moved slightly and she realised that there was a slit in the cloth, through which she could see a bank of glittering, moonlit snow and a single horse, silhouetted against the whiteness.

  “Princess!” came a voice from the darkness.

  She leant forward in confusion, thinking for a moment that the horse had spoken. The voice was thin and adenoidal, as though the speaker were holding his nose.

  Then, after a few seconds, she saw a figure hurrying across the snow towards her.

  “Who are you?” she snapped, straining against her bonds. “How can you leave me like this?”

  As he approached, she saw that her captor was one of Sigvald’s knights. He was wearing tattered shreds of purple armour and had a longsword in his bloody fist. His face was freshly shaven and daubed with makeup, but there was no disguising the fact that he was close to death. His eyes stared wildly from their dark sockets and his skin was stretched horribly over his cadaverous head. There was also a swollen, purple mess in the middle of his face. At first the princess could not make out what it was, then she realised that the man’s nose must have recently been broken.

  “It’s me,” he laughed, as though they were sharing a friendly joke. “Gustav.”

  “Baron Schüler?” gasped Freydís, staring even harder at the man.

  “Of course,” he said, grinning wildly as he dropped down beside her.