He grinned back.
Sväla’s screams formed into words. As she pounded her fists against the cooling metal she called on Völtar for aid, begging him to fill her body with power, or strike her down. The crowd watched with morbid fascination as Sväla’s face grew purple with rage and shame.
As Ungaur stepped towards her, Sväla’s eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs went slack.
She toppled unconscious into his waiting arms.
As Hauk swung his axe at the prone figure of Rurik he felt all the strength leech out of him. Instead of slicing into his opponent’s head, his axe slipped uselessly from his hands and thudded to the ground. For a moment, Hauk was unsure what had happened, then agony tore through his chest. He looked down to see broken ribs sprouting from a pulp of torn skin and muscle. He tried to cry out in pain, but hot blood filled his mouth.
As he dropped to his knees, Hauk found himself lacing a forest of kicking, struggling legs. He tried to rise, but the pain was unbelievable.
Hauk saw Rurik hold his bloody, metal fist up to the sky and roar victoriously at his men. Then the ground rushed towards him and he knew nothing more.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sigvald held his hands up before his eyes and smiled with satisfaction. The fingers were tapered, elegant and flawless. Or at least, almost flawless. He frowned and looked closer. It was hard to be sure in the flickering candlelight of the bedchamber, but he thought he saw a dark line running down one of his fingers. His pulse raced. Was it a vein? A dark, ugly, pulsing vein? He lifted his hand closer to his face and peered at it. The line was simply a trail of dried blood. And not even his own blood. He licked it from his finger, savouring the salty taste and sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief. Then he looked over at the bed. The baron was stirring. His frostbitten, skeletal head was rolling back and forth on the pillows and he was muttering under his breath—pleading with his god to forgive him.
“Baron,” whispered Sigvald, rising from his chair and moving closer. “Calm yourself. You’re safe now.”
Schüler opened his eyes to see Sigvald, sitting at the foot of his bed. “Prince,” he tried to say, but his mouth was clumsy with sleep. He rubbed his face and looked around at the room. It was an opulent jumble of gilt and lace, draped in the warm glow of a lantern, resting on a nearby desk. He tried to sit, but his bones cracked in complaint and he dropped back with a groan.
Sigvald gave him a warm smile. “Don’t exert yourself on my account,” he said, patting the baron’s leg. “You’ve slept for a long time. You should give yourself a few moments to compose yourself.”
Schüler grimaced as he noticed a large figure, waiting silently in a shadowy corner of the room.
Sigvald followed his gaze. “Don’t be alarmed, it’s only Oddrún.” He summoned his chancellor over to the bed. “He thought I should let you sleep for another day, but I think you should eat something. You’re in profound need of nourishment, Schüler; more than any man I’ve ever met. And you must stretch your legs. I want you to be strong enough to enjoy tonight’s celebrations.”
Schüler dragged his aching body into a sitting position as the hooded giant shambled towards him and placed a tray on his lap. He massaged his forehead, clearly confused. Then his eyes widened in alarm and he sat bolt upright. “My men,” he gasped.
Sigvald laughed and rose to his feet. “You needn’t concern yourself with them, Baron Schüler. They’re being made very comfortable.”
The anxious expression remained on Schüler’s face as he slumped back into his pillows, but he was clearly too weak to argue.
Sigvald stepped up to the baron’s side and gripped his hand, studying his face. It was a taut knot of angular bones and scar tissue and there was a distinct edge of mania in his gaze. “They’re made of strong stuff, baron,” said Sigvald, with a kind smile. “As are you. And I’ve so much to show you. I hardly know where to begin.”
As Schüler looked at the prince his weariness faded a little. He wolfed down some of the food without even looking at it. Then his eyes widened and he looked down at the plate. The meal consisted of wafer-thin slices of pale, raw meat. He lowered his fork with a clatter and wiped a thin coating of blood from his lips. “What is this?” he asked, looking nervously at the red smear on his hand.
“Nourishment,” said Sigvald, with an odd smile. Then he shoved the tray aside and took the baron’s hand. “And there will be plenty more of that later. But now, we should explore. And talk.” He laughed. “I’ve been waiting for days to meet you and now I can’t think what to show you first.”
“How did you know I was coming?”
Sigvald’s smile broadened into a grin. “That can be easily explained. Let’s begin our tour with the Empyreal Dome.”
“Every particle in the cosmos is attracted and repelled by its companions,” said Sigvald, spinning on his heels and raising his hands to the vast, vaulted dome above their heads. “From the tiny pieces of matter that make up your flesh, to the distant flaming luminaries that trail across the night sky, everything is in constant motion. Movement is the key, baron, in everything. Do you understand? Stasis is the only real danger to any of us—stasis and boredom.”
The baron was leaning heavily on a walking cane and staring up at the ceiling. His jaw was hanging open with awe. All around him, a broad circular chamber was slowly rotating. There were no torches on the walls but the room was ablaze with light. Hundreds of shafts of moonlight were refracted through lenses housed in the marble floor and, as the room slowly span, they traced a complex series of trajectories across the huge curved ceiling.
As Sigvald strode between the columns of light his excited face flashed in and out of view. “As the Empyreal Dome spins on its axis, it paints a perfect picture of the heavens.” He waved at the circles of light moving over their heads. “See how accurately they follow their allotted paths.”
Schüler peered up at the lights and saw that they were indeed following an incredibly complex series of arcs and parabolas, all painted across the indigo plasterwork in delicate gold leaf. As he looked closer, he saw that each glinting line was surrounded by beautiful astrological images and annotated with fine gold script. “What language have you used?” he asked. “I can’t read it.”
“Language?” said Sigvald, with a sudden rush of annoyance. “What difference does the language make? Why would you want to read it?” He jabbed his finger at the intricate frieze. “Look at it! Look how beautiful it is.”
Schüler tugged his ragged beard as he limped into the centre of the room, extinguishing and reigniting stars as he stepped across the rows of lenses. “But what is it for? Can it be put it to any military use?”
Sigvald was so engrossed in the movement of the lights that for a moment he could not bring himself to answer.
“Prince?” said Schüler, raising his voice.
Sigvald turned to the baron with a forced grin. “I imagine you’ve never seen anything so wonderful,” he said, pointing again at the lights. Before the baron could reply, Sigvald shook his head. “And yet you ask me such a boring question. Military use, you say.” He looked down at the ornate gold armour that covered his body and frowned. “How facile. I dearly hope you’re not going to disappoint me, baron. I must nurture your imagination. War is not the only pleasure in life.”
Schüler drew back his shoulders and clenched his jaw. “I did not abandon everything in search of mere entertainment, my lord. I need power. Military power. If you had seen the horrors that assail my lands and—”
“Very well,” interrupted Sigvald, shaking his head. “I’ll humour you. You asked me how I knew about your arrival in advance.” He looked over at the hunched mass of rags waiting by the door. “Oddrún,” he said. “The wall.”
The gangly giant pitched and weaved across the chamber to a tall rosewood cabinet. He unclasped one of the drawers and slid out a brass mechanism. Then he crushed something in his fist, sprinkled it over the device and leant his great bulk against the
machine until a sharp click echoed around the room.
One by one the lenses were shuttered, until the whole chamber was plunged into darkness. Then there was another click and a rumbling of spinning gears.
Schüler flinched as one side of the chamber lurched into movement.
Sigvald patted the baron on the back and led him towards the wall as it broke into a series of shutters and began rolling up towards the ceiling. As the shutters moved higher they revealed a large curved window, looking out onto the snowy wastes.
After a couple of minutes, the entire chamber was transformed into a glass bowl, filled with glittering moonlight. Schüler once more found himself surrounded by thick, spinning banks of snow and the jagged, towering peaks of the Chaos Wastes. He shook his head in wonder. “How strange to see it but not feel it.” He looked down at his body, noticing for the first time that he was only dressed in thin purple robes. “To witness the ferocity of the weather and yet feel so warm.”
Sigvald’s face was flushed with pride as they approached the glass wall. “Quite,” he said, peering out into the storm. “But surely you’re not impressed by mere entertainment.” He smirked as he gestured to a row of brass rings at the base of the window. “Try one.”
Schüler stooped down and freed one of the rings with a clink. It was a few inches in diameter and fixed to the glass wall by a network of lead tracks and runners.
Sigvald gestured for the baron to lift the ring up before his face.
Schüler did as he was instructed, sliding the circle of metal up the glass dome until it was level with his eyes. Then he gasped. The ring housed a thick lens and as he looked through it, the distant mountains flew towards him, filling his vision and allowing him to see them in incredible detail. “Is it magic?” he asked.
Sigvald laughed at the baron’s shocked expression. “Of course! A very particular kind of sorcery called optiks. I believe the grinding techniques were perfected in your own Empire, but never have they been utilised so charmingly—or usefully. We tracked your progress for days before you reached the palace. No one can approach without my knowledge. Not everyone is admitted, of course, but I had a feeling you were someone worth knowing.”
Schüler could not take his eyes away from the lens as he slid it across the curved glass. As he moved it back and forth, it revealed the forbidding landscape in amazing clarity, allowing him to see for miles in every direction. “What’s that?” he exclaimed, pointing the lens to the north of the palace.
Sigvald laughed. “What can you see?”
“I see beautiful lights, hanging down from the heavens. Like a curtain, shimmering and drifting.” Schüler shook his head in amazement. “It’s clear and solid at the same time. Is it a reflection on the dome?”
Sigvald’s smile faded and he placed a hand on the baron’s shoulder. “I should look elsewhere baron. That’s not a reflection—at least not the kind you mean. You’re looking at the source of everything.” He gently turned the baron’s face away from the lights. “Your eyes aren’t strong enough for such things yet. That way lies the realm of the gods, the Realm of Chaos itself. Beyond those lights, this world ends and another begins.” He leant closer and whispered in the baron’s ear. “If you could draw back that veil, you would behold the well-spring of every power that drives us: fear, lust, avarice, love, envy, hate, even magic; all of them stem from the other side of those lights.”
“You mean the afterlife?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps something much stranger.”
“But it looks so close. As though it were just a few days’ march from here.”
Sigvald nodded. “It is. Be under no illusions, baron. You’ve travelled further than you think.” He squeezed the baron’s shoulder. “You’ve reached the edge of everything.”
Schüler’s face blanched and he ran a trembling hand over his beard. Then he turned away from Sigvald and looked through the lens again. Despite his curiosity he obeyed Sigvald and slid the ring in a different direction. After a few moments he gasped. “There they are,” he cried, grimacing with disgust and flinching back from the lens. “The brutes that killed my men.”
Sigvald frowned. There was a second clink as he raised another lens from the casement and peered through it. He saw a group of soldiers riding through the snowy foothills. They were dressed in thick, crimson armour, edged with brass spikes, and their helmets resembled snarling dogs. Through the lens they looked almost close enough to touch, but he knew they must be many miles away. “Ah,” he said. The smile dropped from his face and he lowered the glass, turning Schüler away from the window. “Let’s move on,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically subdued. “There’s a lot to see before the banquet.”
“Banquet?”
“Yes, I have something very special to reveal this evening.” He led the baron towards a door on the far side of the chamber. “You, of course, will be my guest of honour.”
As Oddrún began to lower the shutters, the baron and the prince made their way down a winding staircase. Sigvald threw some furs over the baron’s shoulders and led him out onto a slender bridge between two of the buildings. As they hurried through the snow, Schüler glimpsed down and saw the rocky foundations of the palace, hanging towards the ground like an inverted mountain. His head span at the sight of it. “How can such a thing be possible?” he asked, pausing to look down over the side of the bridge. As he squinted down through the dazzling snow, a movement caught his eye.
Sigvald followed his gaze and saw the dark, crumpled shape of a man, spread-eagled across the frozen rocks, with another figure hunched over it. They were too far away to be seen clearly, but there was no disguising the fact that the kneeling figure was cutting into the other one’s neck with some kind of saw. As they watched the gruesome scene, the snow around the two men began to turn red.
Oddrún appeared and as he saw the figures below he turned his shrouded head towards the prince. Even though his face was hidden in shadow, his agitation was clear.
Sigvald shrugged and hurried to the baron’s side. He laughed at the confused expression on Schüler’s face and turned him back towards the palace. “We should get you inside. I imagine you’ve seen enough snow to last you a lifetime.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sväla’s dreams were leaking from her head. The figures huddled around her litter were clearly real—the acrid tang of their sweat convinced her of that—but beyond them she saw others that simply could not be there: faces dragged from her past and huge crowds of strangers who called out to her by name. The real and the unreal merged into a bewildering whirl of people and places. Sväla looked up at the rune-carved beams of the mead hall and saw daemons, writhing and screaming as they lunged across her vision. “Am I mad?” she asked, her voice little more than a husky croak.
Some of the faces loomed closer. “She spoke,” said one of them, placing a hand on her arm.
Sväla felt a rush of hope. If they had heard her, she must still be alive. She tried to lift her head, but as she did so the smoke-filled hall began to spin wildly around her and she slumped back again with a groan. Someone pressed a cup to her lips and as she swallowed the water, her thoughts cleared a little. “The fire,” she gasped, remembering her vigil. Her heart raced as she remembered how crucial it was that she guard the flames. Then she recalled the smirking face of Æstrid as she revealed Hauk’s wedding ring. Was that a dream too? She became aware of a dull ache in her left hand and looked down at it, unclenching her fist. The ring was embedded in her bloody palm. “Hauk,” she croaked, her voice filled with despair and anger. “I was true to you.”
She closed her eyes against the collage of faces and allowed the fever to drag her back down into a welcoming oblivion. As the real world slipped away, the other one grew clearer. A confusing array of images filled her head. She saw herself leading a vast army against towering, inhuman foes. She saw a golden palace, hanging in the sky above a frozen landscape. She saw Norscan chieftains, their eyes filled with hate as they charged
towards her. She saw a charred human head on a gilt-edged plate. She saw an impossibly beautiful young woman, begging her for aid. These and countless other, smaller scenes played out through her head, but one image kept returning. An awful reminder of failure that drove Sväla deeper into unconsciousness: the brazier, abandoned and smoking as dawn broke over the steppe.
“Wake up,” called a voice.
Sväla tried to ignore it. She had no desire to return to the real world. Nothing but death could ease the pain of her failure, she saw that quite clearly. Something needled at her though. As the voice repeated its summons, the spinning torrent of visions in her head began to merge into a single image: an ancient, shrew-like face, with skin like crumbling parchment and dazzling green eyes. As the face expanded to fill her vision, something about the crone’s stern features refused to let her slip any deeper into unconsciousness. “Wake up,” demanded the old woman, glaring down at her. Finally, with a groan of annoyance, Sväla opened her eyes.
She looked up into a furious mask of pierced flesh.
“Svärd,” she said, recognising her son.
The boy sneered with disgust. “How could you fail your husband like that?” His face was only inches from hers. “He needed you and now he’s dead.”
“He betrayed me,” she gasped. Then a surge of anger pulsed through her as she looked up into Svärd’s face. “You were with him. You could have kept him alive.”
Svärd’s eyes widened with shock, but before he could reply, hands dropped on his shoulders and pulled him away. Then another face filled Sväla’s vision. This was a much older man, with weather-beaten skin and silver-streaked hair. There was a kindness in his eyes that she found even more of a torment than her son’s rage. Guilt knifed into her as she recognised Valdür the Old—Hauk’s closest friend. She turned her face away in shame, but he placed one of his calloused hands on her face and turned it back towards him.
04 - Sigvald Page 5
