Rurik saw the glint of Ungaur’s blade and began jogging towards him. In a few minutes he reached the circle of earth and looked down at the man spread-eagled in its centre. “Is he strong enough?” he growled.
Ungaur pulled back his lips to reveal the nest of black needles in his mouth. “Strong enough, yes,” he replied, raising his arms to reveal an impressive selection of cuts, bruises and teeth marks. “He was not easy to subdue.”
Rurik sneered. “I’m sure he was in no fit state to defend himself.”
Ungaur shrugged. “Of course not. The Wolf must be fed, if I’m to guarantee you such glorious victories.”
Rurik’s sneer remained on his face. “There was nothing glorious about that. Hauk was a brave man. I take no pride in such a kill.”
“And yet you were grateful for my aid.”
“All the tribes are cursed. What else can I do? The Fallen have grown too weak to survive, so we must destroy them, but it was never Hauk’s fault.” He flared his nostrils as though smelling something unpleasant. “I’m carrying a heavy debt.”
“We’re no longer as weak as you might think,” said Ungaur, revealing even more of his black needles.
“So you say. What is this attack you referred to?”
“Hauk’s wife is leading the survivors against you. She intends to unite the Fallen by slaying the chieftains of all the surrounding tribes and seizing back our old hunting grounds.” The shaman nodded at Rurik. “She means to start with you.”
“Sväla? How has she gained control of the clan? Surely the role should have fallen to Hauk’s son. The one with all the…” he waved to his face, indicating Svärd’s piercings. “Or, if not him, another one of the tribesmen.”
Ungaur nodded. “You’re right, of course, but she has broken with all tradition. She will not even speak to her son. She’s made herself into some kind of queen.”
Rurik frowned and ran a hand through the thick bristles of his Mohican. “But how? How has a woman been able to do such a thing?”
Ungaur’s cheeks flushed with colour and the smile vanished from his face. He began pacing around the circle of earth. “She’s confused them all with some kind of petty conjuring tricks. She’s led them on various hunting expeditions and managed to predict the whereabouts of whole herds of antelope. It’s luck, nothing more, but Valdür the Old has been making the most ridiculous claims about her.” He laughed bitterly. “He says she can rid us of our curse.”
“I see.” Rurik allowed himself a low chuckle. “Hauk always said she was a queen amongst women.” He looked up at the scowling shaman. “And she means to kill me?”
“Yes. To avenge her husband and to take back your tribesmen and your hunting grounds. She believes she can use her run of good luck to unite the tribes and crown herself queen of the entire steppe.”
Rurik shook his head and laughed again. “You’ve got to admire her balls.” Then he looked down at the twisted mass of metal at the end of his arm. “It’s almost a shame to stop her.”
The shaman’s eyes bulged and he strode to Rurik’s side, grabbing his arm. “You’d be happy to see a woman leading us? You’d let a woman steal your tribe from you?”
“Of course not,” muttered Rurik, pulling his arm free and glaring at Ungaur. “Tell me what you know.”
“She plans to strike tonight, as you lead your men down to the river to fill your water skins. She has somehow predicted the exact spot. They’ll be waiting to ambush you as you enter the narrowest point of the gulley. It will be a bloodbath, but she will stop the killing as soon as she has your head. She doesn’t want to kill your men; she just wants to rule them.”
“I see. Then we will prepare a surprise of our own. It will be good to have them all in one place. Sväla must either kneel to me or die. If anyone’s going to reunite the tribes it’s me.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” cried Ungaur, pointing his knife at the man on the ground.
“I’ll leave that to you,” replied Rurik as he jogged off into the long grass. “I’ll soon have enough blood on my hands to feed a hundred gods.”
“Idiot,” cried Ungaur at the receding figure of the chieftain. Then he turned back to the dirt circle and leant down beside the struggling figure at its centre. He held the knife in front of the man’s face. To his satisfaction he noticed a flash of fear in his victim’s eyes. The drugs were already starting to wear off. “Lucky you,” he whispered to the struggling man. “You’re going to enter the afterlife with your eyes wide open.” He drew back the knife and plunged it into the man’s chest, muttering a prayer to the Wolf as hot blood rushed into the parched earth.
CHAPTER TEN
Baron Schüler thrust his sabre at the prince’s chest with a grunt.
Sigvald dodged the blow with sickening ease. He simply rocked back on his heels and arched his slender body out of harm’s way. “Too slow!” he cried, spinning around and laughing as he lunged forward with his own attack.
Schüler brought his blade up just in time to prevent his face being sliced off. He staggered back, gasping for breath, but undaunted. The last few weeks had transformed him. The doubt had vanished from his eyes to be replaced with a steely determination. He had eaten whatever strange meals were presented to him, requested a new sword and even taken to sparring with the prince in an attempt to regain his strength. His skeletal frame had already regained some of its former bulk. Cords of muscle rippled along his arm as he struck again, aiming his sword straight for the prince’s face.
They were duelling across a narrow, arching buttress that swept out from one of the palace’s tallest spires. The prince had no time for training grounds. He always insisted that they spar in the most dangerous places he could think of. The glittering gold domes of the palace sprawled beneath them, glimpsed like flashes of sunlight between the banks of snow. The slightest misstep would send either of the combatants hurtling to their deaths.
Sigvald rolled back along the slender apex of the buttress, narrowly avoiding the baron’s sword. As he leapt back to his feet, he slipped on the frozen metal and almost fell. He managed to grab onto a roof tile and steady himself. Then he began to laugh hysterically. He looked back across at the baron, his eyes wide with excitement. “Did you see that?” he screamed. “Almost! Almost!” He scrambled to his feet and repeated the trick, almost falling again and just grabbing the tiles in time. “Death’s so close,” he cried through the storm, still laughing wildly. “Can you feel it?”
The baron gave no reply, deciding to waste no time in pressing his advantage. He stepped carefully along the icy buttress and hacked down with his sword, aiming for the prince’s throat.
Sigvald launched himself at the baron with a whoop and slammed into his stomach, sending them both tumbling into the void.
Schüler barked in fury as he fell from the buttress. He reached out blindly through the snow and felt his hands latch onto the edge of a roof. His sword clattered away from him and he gasped in pain as his arms took the full weight of his armour. He felt his fingers sliding down the ice and his pulse raced as he realised he did not have the strength to pull himself up.
Strong fingers wrapped around the vambraces of his armour and hauled him up onto the roof. Sigvald was still crippled with laughter as he dragged the baron to safety and collapsed by his side. “Did you see that,” he wailed, rolling back across the roof. “If you’d not reached out when you did…” He gripped the baron’s head and placed a fierce kiss on his forehead. “Have you ever felt so alive?”
The baron was stunned into silence and could do nothing but gasp for breath.
The prince lurched to his feet and stepped over to the very edge of the roof, holding his arms up to the snowstorm and screaming into the endless night. “You can’t have me!” he cried, leaning out into the wind. “I’m Sigvald! Sigvald the Magnificent!” He carried on in this vein for a few minutes, utterly exhilarated by the danger he had put them in. Then, finally, he grew quiet. He raised a hand to his eyes and peered thro
ugh the snow. “Who would dare come so close to my palace?” he asked. His tone turned from elation to anger as he stepped back from the edge. “Can you see this, baron?”
Schüler climbed carefully to his feet. His heart was still pounding with fear and he kept a few feet between him and the prince as he climbed down to the edge of the roof. He squinted through the stormy night, unsure where to look. Then he spied a line of riders snaking through the foothills of the nearby mountains. They were the same heavily armoured knights he had seen through the optiks in the prince’s glass dome. “I can see them, prince,” he gasped, trying to steady his breathing. “They’re the monsters who attacked me as I rode north.” He grimaced. “The thing that leads them has the head of a rabid dog. He hides it inside a skull-shaped helmet, made of brass, but I got close enough to see his true nature.”
Sigvald frowned. “Víga-Barói is right. Each year they become more brazen. They’re riding openly across my land.” Then he shrugged and turned back to the baron with a forced smile. “But what does it matter? We have more important things to discuss.”
“But who are they?”
“Did you say that one of them had the head of a dog? That sounds like Mord Huk.”
“Who?”
“Oh, no one of any consequence. A wretched minor minion of the Blood God. He thinks it’s amusing to let his men traipse across my hunting grounds.” Sigvald backed away from the edge and sat down heavily on the roof, sending a little avalanche of snow tumbling down the tiled slope. His good humour had completely vanished.
The baron looked from the soldiers to the dejected figure of Sigvald and narrowed his eyes. When he spoke again, there was a hint of excitement in his voice. “Before we were forced to flee, I got the distinct impression they planned to attack your palace, my prince. It was their eagerness to destroy your home that made me think this palace might be my last hope.” The baron stepped back towards the prince. “If they’re riding closer every year, maybe you should lead your army out to meet them. It seems grotesque that such filth should stain the purity of your estate. What if they attacked the palace?”
Sigvald looked back at him with raised eyebrows. The snow had plastered his long hair over his face, but somehow he still looked utterly regal. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “They won’t attack me here, baron. We have an agreement.” He lay back in the snow and closed his eyes. “Anyway, I’ve no interest in warfare. The world has grown so dull. War has lost its lustre. There’s no one worth fighting anymore.”
Schüler pursed his lips and looked down at Sigvald, gauging the distance from the prince to the edge of the roof.
Sigvald opened his eyes and looked up at him with a laugh. “What are you thinking, baron? You look so serious!”
Schüler smiled awkwardly and sat next to him.
“What is it, baron?” asked the prince, sitting up and taking his hand. “Something has upset you.” He waved at the distant line of soldiers. “Not those brutes, I hope. They’re not worth a minute of your thoughts.”
The baron shrugged. “Well, maybe. Perhaps it was the memory of… Did you call him Mord Huk?”
Sigvald nodded. “I don’t remember a brass skull, but he definitely has the head of a dog. The brain of one too.”
Schüler nodded and looked out into the snow. “I left half of my men bleeding at his feet.” He looked up at the sky, clearly pained by the memory. “There was a flock of carrion crows following him. We were clearly not his first victims.”
Sigvald nodded. “The Blood God is not the most imaginative of deities. His witless followers must endlessly seek out fresh kills to appease his bloodlust.”
“Then why not ride out and drive this Mord Huk from your kingdom?” asked the baron, leaning close to the prince, his eyes full of passion. “Take your army to war one last time. Place his ridiculous dog head on your wall.”
Sigvald grinned back at Schüler. “Look at you! You’re so full of fire and vigour. You’re becoming yourself again.” He peered into Schüler’s eyes. “Did something happen to you on the night of the banquet? Ever since then you’ve been like a driven man. You seem to have a hunger for something.”
The baron shuffled uncomfortably under the prince’s gaze. “Your speech inspired me, Prince Sigvald. Your drive to experience all that life has to offer. It’s a refreshing change from the dull-witted dogmas I’m used to.” He waved at the falling snow. “That’s why I’d love to see you at the head of a great army, crushing everything with your beautiful wrath.”
Sigvald sprawled back onto the snow with a sigh and looked up at the twin moons. “You would seriously expect me to demean myself by fighting with those wretches?” He waved down at his beautifully engraved armour. “Would you really like to see me drenched in blood and filth, for the sake of a few iron-clad morons?”
Schüler pulled at his thick beard in frustration. “Then will you spend the rest of eternity here? Idling away your time while the Blood God’s oafs divide up your kingdom?”
Sigvald narrowed his eyes and looked up at the baron. “Be careful, Baron Schüler. Remember who you’re talking to.”
The baron sucked his teeth and sat down again. His shoulders slumped and he looked at his open palms, following the lines of the old scars. Then he sat upright and a faint smile trembled at the corners of his mouth. “It might be for the best,” he said quietly, as though speaking to himself.
“What?” asked Sigvald, looking over at him.
“It might be for the best,” repeated the baron, raising his voice. “I think it might actually be quite dangerous for you to ride out against Mord Huk.”
“Pah!” exclaimed Sigvald. “I already told you, he’s not worth dirtying my sword on.”
The baron nodded. “You say you haven’t seen the brass skull he wears?”
“No,” said the prince, beginning to sound vaguely annoyed.
“The source of his power.”
Sigvald sat up. “What power? What are you talking about?”
Schüler looked up from his hands. “When they attacked us, we outnumbered them massively. I thought we would easily overcome them, but the warrior in the brass skull fought like a daemon. Even without his men I think he could have beaten us.”
“Really,” asked Sigvald, sounding unconvinced. “Mord Huk?”
Schüler nodded. “While he was wearing the brass helmet, he was like a god, filled with incredible rage and power, but for a brief moment he stumbled and the helmet fell from his shoulders. It was then that I realised the skull was channelling some kind of unnatural power. Without it, he fought like any other soldier, but as soon as he placed it back on his head he was unstoppable. He was like a living incarnation of hate. Rage poured out of him. He tore through my men as if they were sheep.”
Sigvald frowned. “A brass skull, you say?” His eyes suddenly widened. “A brass skull? The Blood God’s brass throne sits on skulls. Maybe he has bestowed one of them on Mord Huk?”
“Possibly,” said the baron. “I believe some of his men referred to it as the Throne Skull.”
Sigvald climbed to his feet and began pacing around the rooftop. “Could it be?” he whispered. “Surely not. A skull from the throne of a god? Imagine the power.” He stopped and placed his hands on his golden mane of hair. “What would it feel like to wear such a thing?”
Baron Schüler shrugged. “He seemed utterly intoxicated by it. As though it were some kind of drug.”
Sigvald clutched his head tighter. “A drug, yes! Imagine it! All the power of a god, pouring through your mind!”
“But how would you prise it from Mord Huk’s head? How would you even find him?”
Sigvald waved at a nearby line of mountains. “His citadel is just the other side of those peaks. I would simply march through the gates and hack the thing from his head.” Sigvald’s enthusiasm grew as he paced back and forth across the roof. “I still have enough men to make an army.” He pointed at the baron and grinned. “And we now have your men too. Ví
ga-Barói has been treating their injuries.” His grin froze and for a moment he looked a little embarrassed. “Some of them were very weak when you arrived, you must understand. But those that survived the surgery will be like new men. You’ll barely recognise them.”
“But Prince Sigvald,” asked the baron, suppressing a smile. “I thought you just said you were through with war?”
“Who said anything about a war?” cried Sigvald, laughing as he dragged the baron to his feet. “This is a completely different matter. If this brass skull is everything you say it is, I have to experience it for myself.” He lowered his voice and gripped Schüler’s shoulders. “You must understand that I’m no follower of the Blood God.” He tapped a circular device on his armour. “I follow another, more esoteric path.” He closed his eyes and moaned ecstatically. “So I can’t imagine how it would feel to tap into such brutal power. What a sybaritic thrill! It would be like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”
The prince scoured the rooftop and spied a ledge leading down onto a narrow balcony. “Quickly, baron,” he said, scrambling over the icy slates towards it. “You should have told me about this earlier. We’ve no time to lose.”
Schüler followed, at a more careful pace, then paused for a moment and placed a hand across his breastplate. As the prince dropped down onto the balcony below, Schüler thought ruefully of the scratches beneath his armour—angry reminders of the night he had spent with Freydís. At the height of their passion, the princess had gouged her initial deep into his chest, turning Schüler’s cries of ecstasy into a howl of pain. Even now he could feel the scar throbbing under his armour; a painful reminder of his new love. His life-long dreams of victory had evaporated. Only one thing filled his thoughts now. “Forgive me for this, prince,” he whispered, as Sigvald dropped from view, “but I will not share her.”
04 - Sigvald Page 9
