CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sväla shivered in the cool northern breeze. “I’m not sure,” she muttered, looking out over the moonlit gulley. Most of the steppe was featureless and flat, but in some places rivers carved through the dry earth, creating narrow, steep-sided valleys. Birds and antelope had gathered at the water’s edge to drink in relative safety and she could easily believe that the Drékar would choose such a spot to fill their water skins, but something was wrong. Her visions were unclear.
“Not sure about what?” replied Valdür, looking over at her.
She looked back at his lined, weather-beaten face. The old warrior was watching her closely, hanging on her every word. She knew that he had complete confidence in her judgement, just like all the others had. She looked around and saw them crouched behind her in the long grass, waiting eagerly for her command. “I see several things at once,” she said, looking back down at the fast-flowing river. “I see us pouncing, unexpected on the Drékar, and winning their fealty as I lift up Rurik’s severed head.”
Valdür nodded slowly, sensing there was more to come.
“But then I see other memories, where they attack us instead.” She hugged her skinny, tattooed chest and grimaced. “I see Rurik lifting my corpse over his head and hurling me into the river.”
Valdür frowned. “Which is the more powerful vision? Is one clearer than the other?”
Sväla shook her head. “It’s all so muddled, I can’t be sure.” She clutched her head in her hands and screwed her eyes shut. “There’s another version, but that makes no sense at all. Rurik is standing by my side with his metal fist in the air. What can that mean?”
There was a rustling of grass as another warrior crawled towards them. It was Svärd. As his face emerged from the shadows, the moonlight glinted on the rings and teeth that hung from his face. “Everything’s ready,” he whispered to no one in particular, avoiding his mother’s gaze.
She nodded to the others, indicating that they should ready their weapons and tried to control the anger that twisted in her guts at the sight of her son. The other tribesmen were so impressed with her predictions that they had taken to calling her Sväla the Witch, but her own son would no longer even speak her name. She reined in her fury and tried to focus on the task ahead. She couldn’t let her emotion show. She knew that even the slightest sign of doubt would ruin everything. “Good,” she snapped. “And where’s the shaman?”
The boy pointed his spear to the far side of the valley and replied to the men crouched next to him. “He’s with the others. He did not dare to contradict the orders.” He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. “But he’s calling you an idiot to anyone who’ll listen. He says your theory about this Sigvald character is ridiculous.”
Sväla nodded and raised her hand, kissing the two wedding rings on her finger. “They won’t take his word over mine. Not now.” She drew her knife and waved it down the slope. “It’s nearly time. We should move a little closer to the water.”
The tribesmen crept slowly through the grass. They moved so quietly that even the animals gathered at the water’s edge did not notice their passing.
Sväla nodded to the near end of the valley. Shadowy figures were approaching. The Drékar made no attempt to conceal themselves, laughing and clattering their spears as they jogged towards the river. As the warriors approached the water, there was an explosion of clapping wings and thudding hooves as the animals fled further down the valley.
Sväla held up her hand, signalling that the others should wait. Something was still wrong, but she knew this was her only chance. None of the other visions showed the Drékar so clearly. She had to strike tonight. If she could subdue the Drékar, the other tribes would be sure to follow. She shook her head. There were so few of them though. Only thirty or so men were gathering at the water’s edge. This was not the whole tribe. She peered through the half-light. There was no sign of the red-skinned brute who had killed her husband. Where was Rurik? The Drékar dropped their spears and waded into the shallow water, crying out with satisfaction as they washed the filth from their bodies and quenched their thirst.
Sväla gave her men a nod and launched herself down the hill. As she ran she called out, mimicking the staccato war cry of her fallen husband. On the far side of the narrow gulley, the rest of the Fallen leapt from the grass and charged at the unsuspecting Drékar.
The trap was sprung. The second Sväla’s men reached the bottom of the gulley, several of them cried out in pain. She looked back to see hundreds of Drékar hurling their spears from the top of the incline. Sharpened wood thudded into muscle and all around her the Fallen tumbled to the ground. The ambushers were ambushed. Then, with a fierce war cry of their own, the Drékar charged down at them, led by the scowling, crimson brute that was Rurik Iron Fist.
“Sväla!” cried Valdür, crouching in readiness for the attack. “Didn’t you see this?”
She shook her head in dismay. “Something has changed. This was not meant to happen.”
“Well it’s happening,” growled Svärd, striding towards her. “So what do we do?”
Sväla closed her eyes and groaned. “I need more time.”
There was a crunch of breaking wood and bone as the Drékar slammed into them. The Fallen found themselves surrounded on all sides, with no hope of escape. They fought fiercely, swinging axes and maces at their attackers with wild abandon, but it was clearly hopeless. The Drékar were grinning and laughing as they drove them back towards the water.
Svärd and Valdür launched themselves into the fray and Sväla found herself alone, surrounded by struggling, screaming figures. A shard of metal splintered from a nearby axe and sliced through her arm. She clutched at the wound, trying to stem the rush of blood. Then she smiled. The shock of the pain suddenly brought her thoughts into focus. As she looked up at the battle she realised that the jumbled mix of visions had briefly coalesced into one clear image. As she watched the struggling tribesmen, she realised that she had seen the entire battle before, in perfect detail. She knew every move the warriors were going to make. She knew that one of the Drékar was about to plunge his spear into her back, and she stepped calmly to one side, so that the weapon pierced nothing but air. Then, as her attacker stumbled forwards, surprised by her move, she gripped her knife in both hands and hammered it down into his naked back. As he collapsed, gasping, to the ground, she stepped casually past him into the heaving throng, knowing that several of the men were about to tumble backwards and create a clear path through the carnage.
As Svärd and Valdür watched in amazement, she walked slowly through the battle, easily avoiding every blow that was aimed at her and felling towering warriors with her small iron knife. She looked like some kind of spirit: serene and untouchable as she drifted through the mortal realm. Her destination was a red Mohican, bobbing up and down on the far side of the battle.
More Drékar were charging down the gulley and the antelope that had fled earlier panicked, unsure which way to turn. As they sprang back and forth in alarm, a few of them galloped back towards the battle, blind with fear.
Sväla remembered quite clearly what was about to happen. One of the antelope was about to race past her, just a few feet away. She cried out above the clamour of the battle. “Völtar, give me a mount. Let me slay these traitors.” Then, as the surrounding men looked up at her in confusion, she leapt into the air. Her vision was true, and sharper than ever before. She landed squarely on the back of the terrified creature. It galloped on through the mayhem, seemingly oblivious to its skinny passenger and Sväla clutched onto its horns as it slammed through the Drékar, heading straight for their leader.
As the antelope charged up the bank, Sväla lashed out with her knife, surrounding herself in a spray of blood. She closed her eyes for a second and recalled that a second antelope was about to change course, confused by the chaos, and plough into the Drékar. She managed to stand on her mount’s back for a few seconds, conscious that hundreds of eyes were on her
. “Creatures of the steppe,” she cried, balancing precariously, “attack these godless fools.” At that moment, the second antelope changed course, exactly as she predicted, and charged into the tribesmen. To everyone watching, it seemed as though Sväla had ordered the animal to attack. It did no real harm as it raced through the ranks of men and charged up the bank to safety, but the effect on the Drékar was profound. Sväla grinned with satisfaction as she finally slipped from the animal’s back and fell to the ground.
“The witch is in league with the animals!” cried one of the tribesmen, lowering his axe for a second. A spear thudded into his chest as the nearby Fallen took advantage of his hesitation.
Sväla clambered, gasping, to her feet and stumbled up the hill, still lashing out with her knife, and several of the Drékar began to back away in fear.
“Go, fetch us reinforcements,” she howled, pointing her knife at a stunted tree on the far side of the gulley. Seemingly at her command, dozens of rooks burst from the branches and flew up into the night sky.
The Drékar muttered oaths as they saw the birds briefly silhouetted against the clouds, before heading noisily off across the fields.
Again, the Fallen took their chance and hacked into their distracted foe. Despite the uneven numbers, Sväla’s theatrics began to turn the tide of the battle. Her men had rallied at the sight of her strange power and began to drive the Drékar back up the hill.
Sväla saw that one of the Drékar was about to swing his axe at her neck, so she dropped to her knees and heard him howl in frustration as the weapon sliced into one of his own men, jamming in the man’s ribs and causing them both to tumble down the slope. Sväla climbed calmly to her feet, knowing that for the next few seconds she was safe.
“You can’t win,” she said to the Norscans who were watching her progress. “Völtar has appointed me as his messenger. He has granted me control over nature.” She knew from her visions that the clouds were about to roll back from the moon, so she waved her hands, making it seem as though she had drawn them back. As the moonlight picked her out amongst the heaving mass of bodies, it seemed as if her wiry, tattooed body had been singled out by a holy light. “He has told me the true secret of our curse.”
“She lies,” cried another voice, from the far side of the small river.
Sväla looked up to see Ungaur, stumbling through the knee-deep water. She held her breath for a second, scouring her memory of the jumbled visions and squinting at the ghostly battle that drifted over the top of the real one. She grinned as she saw her next move.
“Rurik Iron Fist,” she cried, raising her knife to the moon. “You must kneel before me.”
At exactly that moment, the red-skinned brute slipped down the muddy hillside and toppled to his knees, just as Sväla had predicted he would. He and his men had all heard Sväla’s command and it seemed as though the chieftain’s limbs were now under her control.
Rurik scrambled quickly back to his feet and slammed his metal arm into the faces of the men who leapt to attack him, but his eyes were full of doubt as he looked down at his disobedient legs.
As Sväla strode towards him, he lowered his arm and backed away in fear.
Sväla drew back her clenched fist, as though she were about to hurl some kind of spell at him.
Rurik drew back his hammer hand to strike, then he hesitated. He looked down at his blood-drenched limbs and shook his head in confusion.
All around him the fighting paused, as the warriors watched to see the result of the confrontation.
Rurik lowered his fist, stepping towards Sväla. “This is all wrong,” he said. “This can’t be the will of Völtar.” He looked through the crowd at the distant shape of Ungaur, and then back at Sväla, whose fist was still poised to strike. “Forgive me, Sväla,” he said, dropping back to his knees. “I thought I was fighting for the survival of our people, but I see I was wrong. Their fate is clearly in your hands, not mine. I’ve been a fool. You have the heart of the Wolf in you. My life is yours.” He lowered his head. “Avenge your husband.”
An eerie silence descended over the gulley as the Norscans watched Sväla step towards the kneeling chieftain and raise her knife. Even Ungaur stumbled to a halt, baring his needles in a snarl as he watched the exchange.
Sväla’s head pounded with an intoxicating mixture of hatred and confusion as she looked down at her kneeling enemy. Her fingers squeezed the handle of her knife as she considered slicing it down into his exposed neck and avenging Hauk. Her muscles trembled as she fought to keep control of her body. She saw her husband’s face as he said goodbye on the night of his death; but she also saw quite clearly what would happen if she killed Rurik. Another one of the Drékar would leap to replace him and the battle would continue as before. She could not be sure of the outcome, beyond the fact that the hillside would soon be piled deep with corpses. There was another, more difficult route she could take though. Its outcome was just as unclear, but she somehow knew it was the right thing to do. Instead of avenging her husband, she placed a hand on his killer’s shoulder and lowered her knife.
“You’re a brave son of the Wolf, Rurik Iron Fist,” she said, loud enough for the others to hear. She looked over at Ungaur. “We have already sacrificed far too many of our finest warriors. Völtar has not sent me to kill even more.”
Rurik looked up at her in confusion.
Sväla turned her back on him, trying to ignore the torrent of images that was now pouring though her head. She heard Rurik climb to his feet behind her and waited to feel his grotesque fist slamming into her head. Nothing happened, so she began to speak. “Men of the steppe,” she called out, turning to the crowd of perplexed faces that surrounded her. “For too long now we have butchered our own kin in an attempt to lift this ancient curse. But Völtar has shown me another way. The Wolf has spoken.”
The bulky, fur-clad shape of Ungaur barged through the circle of men surrounding Sväla. He raised his staff and pointed the gnarled wood at her face. “Close your ears to her lies. She means to destroy us. Only a shaman can hear the word of the Wolf.” He grabbed one of the tribesmen and shoved him towards her. “Kill the witch.” He turned his needle teeth on the men nearest to him and a few of them shuffled forwards, afraid to defy the will of the shaman.
As the warriors approached Sväla, nervously fingering their weapons, Rurik stepped around her and blocked their way. He shook his head and raised his bloody hammer hand. “I killed her husband. My blood is hers by right but she has let me live.” He glared at Ungaur. “This can only be the work of Völtar.”
One by one, other tribesmen stepped between Sväla and the shaman, surrounding her with a circle of stern, determined faces.
“Sväla the Witch!” cried Rurik, raising his bloody fist and glaring at Ungaur.
There was a long pause as the Norscans considered the implications of their next move. Then hundreds of voices echoed across the hillside as they answered Rurik’s call. “Sväla the Witch!” they cried, slapping their palms against their bloody chests and lifting their spears to the heavens.
Svärd burst through the circle, gasping and covered in blood. He saw his mother standing behind the man who murdered his father and drew back his spear with a groan of rage. Before he could strike, the men on either side of him gripped his arms and knocked the weapon from his grip.
“I will repay this debt,” grunted Rurik, ignoring the furious young boy and turning towards Sväla.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Ör is divided into eight distinct, defensive circles,” said the head of Doctor Rusas Schliemann. His eyes were rolling feverishly in their sockets and a halo of clockwork mechanisms trembled around his skull as he spoke, but his voice was calm and even. “Each of the eight circles is higher than the last, leading up to the inner citadel, which is a tower of skulls that reaches almost half a mile into the sky. Blood pours constantly from the tower, channelled through the circular walls until it reaches the outer defences, where it forms a deep, impassable la
ke. The lake of blood can only be crossed by a single bridge, the entire length of which is within reach of Ör’s archers and war machines.”
“See?” cried Sigvald, lifting the box higher. “Grateful or not, he cannot refuse to answer my questions.” He tapped the casket that contained the severed head. “Víga-Barói’s surgeons have implanted the machine’s pistons directly into the doctor’s skull. If he refuses to speak, or even if he lies, they immediately pass fire into his brain.” He laughed and reined in his horse, waiting for the rest of the hunting party to catch up. Like the prince, Víga-Barói and Schüler were on horseback, but they lacked Sigvald’s skill when it came to ploughing through the snow and he had already left them behind. “I’m sure the doctor will soon have no need for such inducements,” he continued, “but you have to admire the surgeons’ ingenuity.”
Oddrún was following a few feet behind. They had only been out of the palace for half an hour, but his ungainly, hunched frame was covered in snow. He shook his head at the prince’s words. “You murdered him,” he growled, trudging through the deep drifts to reach the prince’s horse.
“No one has been murdered, Narrerback,” snapped Sigvald. “I’ve taken all his wonderful knowledge and made it immortal.” He waved at the sky. “Now his wisdom will be as timeless as the stars. I’ve given him a great gift.”
“You should let him rest in peace,” said Oddrún. “This is no way to repay him. You should let the man die.”
Sigvald’s smile faltered for a moment and he looked over at the hooded giant. Then he scowled. “This is important to me, Oddrún,” he said, with a sudden hunger in his voice. “Mord Huk is in possession of something of special value. Something I need.”
“At any cost?” asked the giant. “Think of the implications. If you lead an army against Ör, all the ancient pacts will be broken. Mord Huk would be free to strike back at the Gilded Palace.”
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