04 - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  On the other side of the statue a pair of slender figures dropped into the snow and held their hands up to the warmth. The baron grimaced as he recognised them. They were the porcelain-skinned manikins he had seen at the feast. Their pale, ceramic faces were even more cracked than before, revealing large patches of glistening sinew.

  “And is that our destiny?” he whispered, nodding towards them. “To become skinless freaks, dressed up as porcelain dolls?”

  Víga-Barói laughed again. “Oh no, baron, that specific fate is reserved for an elect few.” He looked over at the dolls’ gaudy, painted smiles. “Those delightful girls are the former wives of Sigvald.” He ran a finger over his scarred face. “The prince can’t bear to watch those he loves grow old. Every new wrinkle breaks his heart. So at the first sign of a silver hair or a crow’s foot, he removes their old skin and gives them a new one that will never crumple or sag.”

  Schüler gasped and placed a hand on his chest. “But what about Freydís?”

  Víga-Barói saw the fear in Schüler’s face and narrowed his eyes. “Ah, I see,” he muttered.

  Schüler blushed and looked away. “I simply wondered when her time would come.”

  “Hard to say,” replied the knight, with a glint of amusement. “I believe she caused quite a stir when the prince decided to leave her behind, which won’t have pleased him. But, that said, she has lasted longer than the others. Something about her defiance seems to intrigue him. Passion may blind him to any imperfections in her skin—for a while at least.” He shrugged. “It makes little difference either way though.”

  Schüler shook his head in confusion.

  “Sigvald has doomed her along with everything else in the Gilded Palace. Once Mord Huk learns of this attack his revenge will be swift, but as you can see,” Víga-Barói waved to the ranks of soldiers filing out of the darkness, “since you arrived, Sigvald is no longer interested in defending his home, or his wife. Your counsel has stoked a fire in him. He’s obsessed with seizing Mord Huk’s fortress. Until he can find a way to achieve that he will think of nothing else. So, we’re heading north, into the realm of the gods.”

  Schüler squirmed beneath Víga-Barói’s intense gaze. “I gave him no counsel—I only mentioned that the warriors of the Blood God were roaming through his lands. It was his decision to ride out and face them.”

  Víga-Barói shrugged, clearly unconvinced. “Whatever the reason, he’s left the Gilded Palace at the mercy of his enemies. The princess’ beauty will not protect her against the blood lust of Khorne. Sigvald has left her to die.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sväla could not survive for much longer. The cold was knifing into her head and her lungs were about to explode. She thrashed wildly, eel-like, under the water, kicking and biting in a desperate attempt to free herself, but it was no good, Halldórr’s fingers were latched firmly around her throat and, as the seconds passed, the pain in her head was slowly replaced by an ominous numbness. She could see the shifting, blurry outline of his face, glaring down at her through the water. The Kurgan was cursing her as she died, but the words were muffled and distant, drowned out by the sound of her own pulse. Finally, Sväla’s last breath exploded from her lungs, replaced by a flood of icy saltwater. Her pain began to fade as her life slipped away.

  As Sväla’s hands pressed desperately against Halldórr’s chest, fingers of moonlight rippled through the water and glanced off her wedding rings. She watched the shards of light lancing away through the weeds and saw that Hauk was beside her in the water, stern and proud, as he came to welcome her into the afterlife. Then she noticed how young her husband looked. She was remembering him as he was in the earliest days of their courtship, back in the days when he taught her how to fight. “If your enemy is stronger, turn his strength against him,” he said, gripping her slender frame. “If you’re too small to overpower him, steer him in an unexpected direction.” As Sväla nodded her understanding, Hauk graced her with a rare smile: willing her to succeed, willing her to live.

  Sväla relaxed her arms, allowing the full weight of Halldórr to topple onto her. There was an explosion of sound as he crashed into the sea. As he flailed in the water, trying to right himself, she slipped around him and jammed his face into the sharp rocks below.

  Sväla burst from the sea, windmilling her arms, gasping for breath as she flopped back through the inky waves. As the sea pounded against her she felt a fierce lust for life. Nothing could stop her, she realised. Nothing could be allowed to stop her. It was her destiny to lead these people to salvation. She would see Hauk’s dream through to the end.

  A second later, Halldórr exploded into view, bellowing and shaking his head. His face was red with blood and there was a long tear in his face, stretching up from the corner of his mouth and giving him a lunatic, skeletal grin. He clamped his hand over the wound and howled, staggering back through the crashing surf.

  As Sväla stumbled towards him, she had to fight the urge to vomit. She knew this was her last chance and threw herself at Halldórr with a guttural cry.

  She landed a punch on his severed lips and his head rocked back on his shoulders, spraying more blood as he collapsed back into the brine.

  Sväla stamped her foot down on the Kurgan’s throat, pinning him beneath the waves. Then she turned towards the beach with a look of exultant defiance on her face. She pulled the ice and kelp from her head and raised her fist. “I’m Sväla the Witch!” she cried, forcing her foot down on the struggling chieftain and glaring at the figures on the beach. “Obey me! I am the wrath of the Wolf!”

  She felt Halldórr punching and clawing at her leg, but she held firm. After a few minutes his movements grew weaker and finally ceased, but she kept her foot on his throat. “Do I have any other challengers?”

  The Fallen looked back at her with a mixture of awe and terror. As she met their eyes, they looked shamefully at their feet, not daring to reply.

  Sväla nodded. She had their allegiance again, but this would not be the last challenge, she was sure of that. She had brought them to a world of lunacy and death. It would take every ounce of her courage to drive them on through the madness. She would be tested again.

  Sväla lifted her foot from Halldórr’s throat and his corpse bobbed to the surface, grimacing up at her through the surf. She looked past him into the pewter depths, searching for a glimpse of another figure. There was a flicker of movement and she rushed towards it, reaching into the brine for her husband’s hand; but it was just a fish, glinting and flashing as it slipped out to sea.

  The Fallen spread out across the frozen wastes in a silent black line. Thousands of them: warriors, herdsmen, crones and cripples, all staring at the moonlit coast in terror. Up ahead of them, a single, dark figure was the only interruption in the endless white. As Sväla looked across glittering drifts to the distant line of mountains, her heart raced. Nothing like this had ever been done. She had brought a nation to the roof of the world. Despite their fear and mistrust, she had led an entire people right to the very source of their curse. Soon, they would either have Sigvald’s head on a pole, or they would be no more. Either way, the nightmare would end.

  Valdür the Old strode out towards her. “Do you see anything?” he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  She bridled at the pity in his eyes. “Nothing,” she said, sniffing hard and raising her chin.

  “Well, I’m sure the visions will return. Maybe we’re still too close to that wretched island?”

  Sväla shrugged. “We must do without visions.” She waved her knife at the magnificent peaks and the gleaming vastness of the snow. “This place is not as empty as it looks. We won’t be alone for long. And whatever horrors are waiting out there must be harnessed to our will. Sigvald’s depravity will be like a beacon to them. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone, or something, that can lead us to him.”

  “It’s not just the monsters you’ll need to harness to your will.” Valdür looked back at the huge crowds
gathered along the coast. “There are others who would see you fail.”

  Sväla nodded. “I’ll deal with Ungaur the Blessed, don’t worry about that, old friend.”

  Valdür shook his head. “He’s not the one I meant.”

  Sväla frowned and followed his gaze. She saw the wiry figure of her son, deep in conversation with the hulking priest. “Svärd?” For a second, her resolve faltered, then she clenched her jaw and shook her head. “Nothing will stop this crusade. I will see to that.” She pulled back her shoulders and gripped her iron knife a little tighter. “Make no mistake, Valdür, I will find Sigvald.”

  After four days of marching, they began to die. At first there seemed nothing strange in it. Hunting was hard, many of the Fallen were old and frail and the bitter winds lashed through even the thickest furs. The weakest of them simply crumpled into the deep snow. Soon, however, it became clear that something else was at play. Strange voices drifted on the wind and the Norscans began to eye their own kin with suspicion, unsure who was pouring such scorn and derision on them. Their paranoia grew as they realised the sun was never going to rise. The heavy darkness that shrouded the landscape was no natural night. Not a single star peered down at them and many began to wonder how even a witch could navigate in such a void. As their fears grew, tempers flared and knives flashed. Some of the bodies left behind were not so old, and some were slick with blood.

  The landscape grew harsher as they marched north. The frozen plains gave way to jagged rocks and foothills and, as they edged closer to the mountains, they found themselves clambering up icy, brutal slopes.

  A few of the younger warriors raced ahead, eager to prove themselves to their new queen and still naive enough to consider the crusade a great adventure. After several hours of absence, one such scout waved back at them from the edge of a distant peak. “Queen Sväla,” he called, shielding his voice from the howling wind and holding his javelin aloft.

  She clambered up a small rise and peered out from her fur-lined hood, trying to make him out more clearly.

  “There’s a star ahead,” he called, his voice full of pride.

  “A star?” said Sväla, turning to Valdür who was climbing up towards her. Her eyes glinted with excitement. Despite her facade of confidence, she had been utterly lost ever since they left the longships. With a star to guide them, she could at least be sure they were not marching in circles.

  The old warrior grinned back at her, but was too exhausted to reply.

  Sväla raised her knife in salute to the young scout and waved her people in his direction.

  As she climbed towards the scout, Sväla tried to blank out the whining calls that echoed through the banks of snow. Dozens of voices taunted her in a language she had never heard before, but the malice needed no translation. As she hauled herself up the rocks, Sväla began to notice something else strange. As she dislodged stones with her grasping fingers, some of the smaller ones tumbled up the slope rather than down it. As she climbed further, even the larger stones began to roll uphill rather than down. She looked back at the others and saw that they had noticed it too. She realised that as her muscles trembled with the effort of clinging to the rocks, she was no longer preventing herself from falling back down the slope; she actually had to stop herself falling up it.

  She turned to Valdür with a puzzled expression, intending to ask him about the strange phenomenon, but instead she said: “You’re holding me back, Valdür. Maybe you shouldn’t have come? You’re just too old for this kind of journey.”

  Valdür’s eyes bulged with shock and hurt.

  Sväla gasped, horrified by her own words. She shook her head and reached towards him. “You left my husband to die,” she gasped. “Will you do the same to me?”

  Valdür’s face twisted into a snarl and he backed away.

  Sväla clamped a hand over her mouth and shook her head fiercely.

  Valdür’s expression softened as he saw the confusion on her face. “What more can I expect from a woman?” he asked. He frowned. “Even your own son is not safe from your lies. You’ve stolen his rightful throne. And now you’re leading us all to our deaths.” He mimicked Sväla and clamped a hand over his mouth, but after a few seconds of staring at each other in mute horror, he tried to speak again. “Next time you sleep I’ll slit your lying throat.”

  Sväla eyes widened, but she would not remove her hand from her mouth. She looked down the slope and saw arguments breaking out amongst all those nearest to the summit. As insults and curses echoed through the snow, she realised that the whole army was on the verge of turning on itself. She grabbed a horn from Valdür’s belt and let out a shrill blast. The Norscans looked out at her with rage in their eyes as she pointed to the hand pressed over her mouth. A few more cruel jibes followed until, one by one, they grasped her meaning and clamped their mouths shut.

  Valdür patted Sväla’s shoulder and pointed to a narrow crevasse between two of the jagged peaks.

  She nodded in reply and they led the others down between the rocks. The wind was howling down the gulley with such force that tears streamed from their eyes as they waited for the others to file down after them. Sväla crouched next to a rock and spent a few minutes scratching at it with her iron knife. Then she waved Valdür over and pointed out the runes she had left. “Do not speak,” they said. “Our words are being twisted by the mountain spirits. Tell the others to read this.”

  He nodded and signalled to those nearby that they should look at the stone. Then he followed Sväla as she scrambled off in the direction of the scout.

  The young tribesman was waiting on a ledge for them as they emerged from the gulley. Sväla noted that his face was daubed in crimson war paint and realised that he must have belonged to the tribe that killed Hauk. She felt no anger towards him though; they were all one tribe now.

  “There,” he said, pointing his javelin at the horizon.

  Sväla raised her hand to silence him, then, realising his words held no malice, she lowered it again. She spoke hesitantly, unsure what would emerge from her mouth. “I see it,” she said. “We’ve left the spirits behind,” she said, waving Valdür up onto the ledge. Then she looked back out over the incredible spectacle of the Wastes. Mountains filled the horizon, rearing up from the frigid ground like spined monsters and dwarfing even the tortured clouds that writhed between their jagged peaks. The moons were obscured by banks of rolling thunderheads, but there was a single light twinkling in the heavens: a flash of gold amongst the black and grey that seemed to have strayed north from more cheery skies.

  Sväla narrowed her eyes and peered through the storm. “There’s something familiar about this,” she muttered.

  Valdür threw back his fur-lined hood and smoothed his grey hair back from his face. “Did you see this in your visions?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.” She turned away and smiled at the young scout. “You’ve done well. I think that star is important somehow.” She turned to see that some of the elders were struggling towards the ledge with their hands clamped over their mouths and their bodies shrouded in tattered, snow-covered furs. At their head, she saw the bearded face of Ungaur the Blessed, grinning at her from beneath his snarling wolf hood, using his staff to heave his muscle-clad bulk up to her side.

  “Where now, witch?” he grunted waving his staff at the storm. “Where does Völtar wish us to die next?”

  Sväla did not acknowledge the venom in the shaman’s voice. She simply waved her knife at the long column of figures struggling up the mountain behind him. “Tell the others to head for the star,” she answered. She stared at Ungaur and Valdür until both of them nodded to show that they understood. Then she turned and began climbing down into the storm-lashed valley. “We’re nearing the end,” she said, fixing her eyes on the lonely star. “If anyone becomes separated, leave them behind. Völtar the Wolf will watch over them.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  On the third day of marching they reached a broad plain, nestli
ng between the blasted peaks. As they climbed down a narrow mountain path, Sigvald pointed out a patch of green directly below them. It looked like a calm lake, a tranquil haven in the heart of the brutal landscape, with a violet gemstone in its centre. Sigvald wiped his sodden hair from his face and looked up at Oddrún with a grin. “We’re here,” he yelled, straining to make himself heard over the noise of the storm.

  Oddrún nodded but gave no reply, pulling his filthy robes a little tighter around his lanky frame. As he followed the prince, he muttered bitterly under his breath and tried to avoid looking at their destination.

  A few yards behind them trudged Víga-Barói, closely followed by the baron. Upon seeing the lake they both stumbled to a halt, baffled by the strange sight; then, noticing that the prince and the giant were already disappearing from view, hurried after them, along with the garish remnants of Sigvald’s army.

  As the soldiers staggered clear of the treacherous foothills, they saw the smooth expanse more clearly. It was actually a broad, circular lawn of perfectly maintained grass, and the gemstone at its centre was a cluster of tall, violet pavilions shining in the moonlight. A wide, venerable old hedge surrounded the lawn, bejewelled with rambling roses and sculpted to resemble an undulating serpent. Undaunted by the strangeness of the place, the Geld-Prince strode calmly through a gate of knotted oak and stepped out onto the lawn.

  Groans of pleasure exploded from the weary troops as they followed him into the garden. As soon as they passed through the gate, the terrible screaming of the storm was silenced and the weather changed from bitter winter to a balmy summer’s evening. The soldiers collapsed gratefully in a jumble of chitinous limbs and aching, shivering wings.