04 - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  The chopping sound stopped.

  “Ürsüla?” she repeated.

  A few feet away, one of the shadows began shuffling towards her. There was a red, flickering light wavering in front of it that revealed the heavily lined face of an old woman.

  Sväla grabbed her knife, preparing to defend herself.

  “I have nothing for you,” cried the woman in a hoarse, barking voice. “There’s nothing here worth taking.”

  Sväla lowered the knife as the old woman approached. “I’m no thief. I just want your help.”

  There was a pause as the old woman considered this. Then she laughed. It was a raw, croaking sound that quickly turned into a hacking cough. Once she had calmed herself, she took a long drag on a pipe. Its bowl flared with light that glittered in her mischievous eyes. Then she tugged aside some animal skins and allowed a little more daylight into the hut.

  As the darkness receded, Sväla recognised Ürsüla from her dreams. She was frail, incredibly ancient and covered in filth—mud, feathers, sticks and blood were all plastered over her scrawny frame—but she was also oddly beautiful. Her short-cropped hair was pure silver and her eyes were a striking, vivid green.

  “Let me look at you,” said the old woman, stepping closer and peering at her guest. “Yes,” she said, nodding slowly, “I see. You might be the one to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Lead us to victory, child.”

  Sväla felt oddly naked under the old woman’s gaze and could not think how to reply. To hide her confusion she looked around at the other figures. To her surprise, she realised that they were not real people at all. They were crudely built life-size dolls, constructed mostly from mud, but with the addition of bones, animal furs and human hair. She grimaced as she saw that some of them even had teeth and pieces of skin pressed into their eyeless faces. “What are they?” she gasped, backing away from the crooked figures.

  The old woman laughed again. “Don’t you recognise any of them?” she asked. “What about that one?” She waved at one still mostly hidden in the darkness.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sväla.

  The old woman simply smiled and waved again at the strange sculpture.

  Sväla crossed the room, being careful not to get too close to the old crone. As she neared the statue she frowned. The anatomy was as crude and misshapen as the others, but it did seem vaguely familiar. It was slender and the clumsy indication of breasts and hips was obviously meant to imply it was a woman. The mud had dried to a pale grey and was covered with blue runes. Sväla felt a chill of fear. “Is this meant to be me?”

  “It is you,” replied the old woman, stepping to her side and slapping her hand on the doll’s arm.

  Sväla looked closer and saw that several blonde hairs had been pressed into the thing’s scalp. She reached out and placed her hand on the cool mud. “Is this my hair?”

  Ürsüla smiled and lifted her voice into a wavering song: “Hair, teeth and blood, pressed deep in the mud; followed with flesh, the memories will flood.”

  She stroked Sväla’s hair and laughed at her look of revulsion. “It’s not important, child. They simply need such things before they can speak to me. It’s what gives them life.”

  Sväla withdrew her hand from the mud and backed away. “They live?” she said, with a growing sense of unease. She had heard of the old woman’s madness, but in the oily darkness of her hut, Ürsüla’s words seemed horribly believable.

  “Of course they live.” The old woman leant close to Sväla, narrowing her eyes. “Why else would I spend so long talking to them?”

  Sväla’s heart sank. Valdür was right. The woman was clearly too insane to be of any use. “Yes, of course,” she muttered, turning to leave. “I should go.”

  Ürsüla grabbed her arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she pulled Sväla closer. “The shaman plans to kill you,” she said calmly.

  Sväla grimaced at the heady mixture of herbs and alcohol on the woman’s breath. “Yes,” she said, straining to free herself from Ürsüla’s grip. Then she froze. “How did you know that?”

  The old woman let out another rattling burst of laughter and waved to one of the dolls. “He told me.”

  Sväla saw that the doll was larger than the others and it had a small piece of grey wolf skin draped over its head. She stopped trying to free herself from Ürsüla’s grip and looked around at the ranks of mute figures. “What else has he told you?”

  Ürsüla let go of Sväla’s arm and walked over to the likeness of Ungaur. “They tell me many things. Anything I ask them.” She slapped the hulking statue. “Ungaur was taught by his father, who in turn was taught by his father before him. His memories go back through centuries of ancestors. Back even to the years before the curse. He has a lot to talk about.”

  “Then he must know the reason for the curse,” said Sväla with a sinking feeling. “And his sacrifices must be the only hope.” Her shoulders dropped and she shook her head. “I thought there might be a more certain way to lift the curse: a way that we could atone for whatever crime we’ve committed against Völtar. But if the shaman knows so much, he must be right. We’re doomed to be the Fallen forever.”

  Ürsüla shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” She took .mother thoughtful drag on her pipe and gave Sväla a strange smile. “He may have reasons of his own for not discussing the true nature of the curse.” The old woman grabbed Sväla’s arm again and led her over to the doll. Then she opened Sväla’s left hand and peered at the fresh scars that networked her palm. “They need a little blood to loosen their tongues,” she said, nodding at Sväla’s knife.

  Sväla hesitated for a few seconds, unsure whether to humour the old woman any further. Then she remembered the image of Ürsüla hanging over her as she lay dying. She held the knife over her hand and pressed the point gently into one of the scars, producing a small droplet of blood.

  The old woman slammed her hand down so that the blade sliced deep into her flesh.

  Sväla hissed in pain and snatched her hand away from the witch. As she did so, a fan of her blood splashed over the hulking statue of Ungaur.

  “They need quite a lot of blood,” said the old woman with an apologetic shrug.

  Sväla glared at her and clutched her hand. “You’re as mad as everyone said,” she snapped, turning back towards the door. She gently drew the blade from her hand, wincing as yet more of her blood splashed onto the ground. As she reached the skins that covered the entrance, she paused. There was a low, liquid gurgling sound coming from behind her.

  “You may as well get what you came for, child,” said the old woman, shuffling after Sväla and turning her back towards the statue.

  Sväla felt a sickening rush of fear as she looked at the statue. Its whole frame was trembling slightly and the strange moaning sound was coming from somewhere in its throat. “What’s happening?” she said, pointing her knife at the figure in the shadows. As she watched in horror, the crudely drawn lips on the statue’s face drew back to reveal a row of black spines and the gurgling sound turned into a torrent of droning words.

  “Kurgan,” slurred the mud. “Small enough to kill. My axe in his fist. Knife. Throat. Axe. Hand. Cut. Cut. Cut. I have him by the throat. Blood. Völtar is here. In my veins. The Kurgan’s dying. I’m squeezing the life from him: squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. Bones cracking. Rain on my face. It’s colder. The bones are sharp. I can feel the bones breaking beneath my fingers. Dead. Mud. Pain. Others are coming. I must be quick. Father has the chieftain’s heart. He’s lifting it up. The others can see it. Blood, blood and rain.”

  “What’s it talking about?” gasped Sväla, turning to the old woman.

  Ürsüla grinned back at her. “I’m mad, remember. There’s no use asking me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sväla, grabbing the old woman’s hands in hers and stooping until their faces were level. “I didn’t understand.”

  As Sväla pleaded with the witch, the malformed shape cont
inued talking to itself in the shadows, describing a battle with horrible, mounting urgency. “He’s dead. There’s blood in my belly. The other one has cut me. I’m pulling my axe from the corpse. Swinging it. Hot blood. Hot pain. My belly is split. I can’t stop the blood.”

  Ürsüla shrugged and led Sväla back towards the mumbling statue. “This is one of Ungaur’s memories,” she explained. “Or maybe even one of his ancestors’ memories.” She pointed to the thing’s hands. There were several human fingernails embedded in the mud. “He lost those during one of his sacrifices. It was easy enough for me to retrieve them. Now his thoughts are mine to share. These words are flowing directly from his mind.”

  Sväla looked in horror at the trembling pile of mud. As its monologue increased in urgency, the drawings of its eyelids were starting to open slightly, revealing a pair of glistening red orbs.

  “But why?” asked Sväla, shaking her head in disgust. “What use is this monstrosity?” Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. She lifted her knife. “What would happen to the real Ungaur if I cut this one?”

  Ürsüla laughed. “Not your closest friend, eh?” She lowered Sväla’s knife and shook her head. “You can’t use the statue to harm him, but his mind is yours to explore. Surely that is of interest to you?” She leant closer to Sväla. “Why did you come here, child?”

  Sväla clutched her head. The temperature in the hovel and the droning gibberish spilling from the statue combined to leave her head spinning. She looked around at the other statues, half expecting to see them all springing to life. The one next to Ungaur was particularly disturbing. It was more slender than the others, bleached white and was smiling oddly at her from beneath two small black horns. She took a deep breath and looked back at the witch. “I need to know why we’re cursed.” She turned back to the statue of Ungaur, feeling her rage returning. “The shaman has done nothing to save us from the other tribes, but my husband believed there must be some simple reason for the curse, and Ungaur was hiding it from us. Just so he could maintain his place in the tribe. Hauk thought there must be something we could do other than letting Ungaur sacrifice us one by one. He said the shaman must know some secret. Something that would explain why we could no longer catch our prey or defeat our enemies.”

  Ürsüla exhaled a plume of smoke into Sväla’s face. “Then ask him,” she said.

  Sväla waved the smoke away and turned to the gurgling lump of mud. “You mean…?”

  The witch nodded and indicated that Sväla should step closer to the statue.

  Sväla approached the thing and forced herself to look at its grotesque face. Its eyeballs were now fully revealed. They had no pupils. They were nothing more than sacks of blood, rolling wildly in their muddy sockets as the statue continued its garbled monologue. “Running. Rain. Bodies. Gods. The spirits are in my eyes. Everything is the Wolf. I am the Wolf.”

  “Why are we cursed?” asked Sväla. The idea of communicating with the hideous doll terrified her and her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Louder!” snapped the old woman.

  Sväla looked back at her and noticed that there was a gleam of excitement in her bright, green eyes.

  “Why are we cursed?” Sväla asked again, lifting her voice into a trembling yell.

  The statue’s monologue stopped dead. Its blank eyes rolled in their sockets and fixed on Sväla. To her horror, it seemed to be looking directly at her.

  “Cursed,” groaned the statue, gargling the word around the back of its throat, as though savouring an unfamiliar flavour.

  Sväla held her breath and it seemed as though the statue was doing the same. Its trembling stopped and for a few moments it made no sound. The only noise came from the witch, crouched by Sväla’s side and breathing heavily with excitement.

  Then the statue began to mumble again. The monologue had been replaced with a single word, repeated over and over again. The statue began to shake violently as its voice grew louder. Finally it screamed the word so loud that mud sprayed from its crooked mouth and its chin began to crumble. “Sigvald!” it screamed, shaking its head as though it were in pain. “Sigvald!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Baron Schüler studied the fork in his hand. His haggard face stared back at him from the polished silver with a look of fierce hatred. “I must die,” he muttered under his breath, wondering if the metal would be sharp enough to pierce his throat. He was clad from head to toe in a beautifully filigreed suit of purple armour, courtesy of his benevolent host. The prince’s servants had bathed him, doused him in scented oil, trimmed his beard and combed his hair; they had even rouged his cheeks and painted a bit of colour onto his cracked lips, but all their efforts had somehow conspired to leave him looking even more corpse-like.

  “I’m sorry,” said the guest sat next to him. “Did you say something?”

  Schüler shook his head and looked down the length of the dining table. His fury had driven him north without any clear plan, but he had never imagined his journey would end like this. He whispered a prayer for his men, hoping desperately that they were not enduring such awful sights. The light of a dozen candelabras had finally revealed to the baron the full horror of the Geld-Prince’s court. A host of vile, diabolical souls were sat around him, chatting quietly and waiting for their prince to arrive.

  The figure sitting opposite Schüler was vaguely man-shaped, but its naked flesh was a bright, virulent pink and its whole body glistened like raw meat. A pair of spindly, paper-thin wings was folded behind its back and its face was a pouting mess of gristle and canines. It was whispering to the guests on its right: a pair of life-size, porcelain figurines, with limbs the colour of old, yellowed ivory. As the dolls leant closer to the winged creature, cracks opened up in their polished torsos, revealing a dark layer of exposed muscle and ligaments beneath. The sight of the bizarre creatures repulsed the baron more than anything he had seen so far. The dolls’ smooth, ceramic heads were decorated with painted locks and angelic, girlish features, but their glass eyes were full of animal hunger. As they listened to the winged creature, they giggled and rattled around on their seats. One of them caught the baron’s eye and lowered a porcelain eyelid in a slow, suggestive wink.

  Schüler turned away in disgust but struggled to know where to look. All around the table were figures so grotesque that it pained him to look at them. It seemed as though a butcher’s block of animal parts had been combined with the contents of a mortuary, and then painted in the gaudy colours of a lunatic’s nightmare. A wonderful banquet had been laid out for them: plates of meat and quivering, fruit-filled jellies that looked almost as fantastic as the guests and, in a distant corner, a group of bizarre, misshapen musicians were playing a gentle waltz. A beautiful portrait of the prince looked down over the peculiar scene and Schüler decided to rest his eyes on the prince’s noble face for a while.

  The guest to Schüler’s right had been too intent on eating to join in with the general conversation. The belching, snorting sounds coming from its mouth were so loud and bestial that for a long time the baron could not bring himself to look at it. He imagined from the slurping, tearing sounds that he must be seated next to some kind of enormous ruminant. Eventually, Schüler’s curiosity overcame him and he stole a quick look. He was next to a huge, bulbous, disembodied head, with scraps of half-eaten food hanging from its mouth. The thing’s pale, jowly face was as big as the baron’s whole body and it was sat in a nest of white serpents that trailed down from its flabby neck. The overall effect was that of a giant, fleshy squid. The baron opened his mouth to reply, but as he looked into the thing’s huge, watery eyes, his words froze in his mouth. He felt his sanity teetering on the brink of collapse.

  The head gave him an encouraging smile. “I thought you said something,” it said in a rumbling baritone. As it spoke, it looked hungrily at the baron’s emaciated body and leant a little closer to him.

  To the baron’s horror he noticed that some of the thing’s serpentine limbs h
ad surrounded his chair and were trailing down over his shoulders.

  “No,” he said, leaning away from the creature’s scaly limbs. “Nothing.”

  The head continued to watch him, panting slightly as it leant even closer. It seemed to be sniffing him.

  “I just thought—well, I wondered,” stammered the baron, searching desperately for something to say. “I wondered which of the guests is the prince’s wife.”

  The head flopped back and laughed, opening its mouth so wide that Schüler could see the remnants of the first course sliding around on the back of its grotesque tongue. “So you’ve heard about Freydís?” As the thing laughed, its serpentine limbs patted the baron on the back. “You’re a man after my own heart,” it said. “On any normal occasion I would have been able to introduce you.” The creature ran its tongue over its thick, sagging lips and gave the baron a lewd grin. “I’m Ansgallür the Famished, you see. I’m the girl’s guardian.”

  It horrified Schüler to imagine such a grotesque monster being anyone’s guardian. He felt a sudden urge to run screaming from the banqueting hall, but he dreaded to think what might happen to him if he roamed around the palace without Sigvald to protect him. He decided to hide his fear until the prince arrived, then beg him for freedom. “I was led to understand that she would be here,” he replied, attempting to sound calm.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ansgallür, letting his eyes roam around the table. “For once the Geld-Prince has requested her company. She should be at his side when he joins us.” The head laughed again. “Sigvald rarely bothers with the poor child, but he’s particularly excited about his latest toy.” The head slumped into a frown and was about to say something more on the subject when the conversation around the table ceased. There was a scraping of chairs as the guests all climbed to whatever they used for feet.