Sigvald carried on towards the pavilions with Oddrún lurching and weaving after him. As they passed the smaller, outlying structures, the prince saw figures gathered inside them. Shifting firelight distorted their silhouettes, but it was clear that their hands were pressed against the walls of the tents, as if they were monitoring his approach through their outstretched fingers. He did not pause, however, marching straight ahead towards the largest of the tents. Once there, he wrenched open a pair of canvas doors and stepped inside.
He found himself surrounded by music and leaves. The pavilion contained an orchard and the branches of the trees were crowded with hundreds of songbirds, all trilling and warbling as he stepped beneath the fruit-laden boughs. He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at finding such a bucolic scene buried deep in the heart of the Shadowlands.
At the centre of this pretty bower was a wooden bench, dangling from the branches of a twisted old juniper tree. Swinging gently back and forth on it was a daemon.
Sigvald bowed low as Belus Pül beckoned him closer. His patron had not aged a day since their last meeting, despite the passage of two centuries. It still resembled a slim, androgynous youth and was even wearing the same clothes—a plain, white habit. Its face was such a picture of benign serenity that Sigvald could not help but smile. A pair of small black horns curved up from the daemon’s smooth, hairless head and in its left hand, it carried a single white lily. As it watched his approach, the daemon held the flower up to its face and sniffed, closing its eyes and crushing its small, pretty nose into the petals.
“Sigvald the Magnificent, Prince of the Decadent Host,” said the daemon, in a soft, melodic voice, turning to another figure sat a few feet away, “arrived as casually as if he were a daily visitor. His manner was nonchalant and self-assured, despite having neglected his celestial parent for almost two hundred years.”
Sigvald shook his head in dismay and followed the daemon’s gaze to the other side of the lawn.
At first he thought his patron was talking to a huge, pale spider. The light blazing through the lilac walls made it hard to make out anything clearly, but he could see that the thing had dozens of fine, segmented appendages that trailed out from a small plump body. It was only as he stepped nearer that Sigvald realised it was a naked, hairless man with a nest of twitching arms sprouting from his sides. Each of his needle-thin limbs ended in a sharpened, inked point and as the daemon spoke, the man wrote on a long roll of parchment. His face was devoid of features apart from a single hole at its centre, which curled inwards like the auricle of a huge ear.
“Wait,” gasped Sigvald, rushing towards the angelic youth. “I’ve never forgotten what you did for me. You’re in my thoughts constantly, Belus, but your gifts have been such a blessing, that time itself—”
“The prince fawned pathetically, like an errant child,” interrupted the daemon, still directing its words to the scribe, “vomiting treacly platitudes in an attempt to assuage Belus Pül’s grief.” As the daemon spoke, the scratching of its scribe’s quill-like fingers continued. With so many limbs scuttling back and forth, he was able to write with incredible speed—quickly filling the roll of parchment with tightly packed rows of tiny, florid text.
“Stop it,” snapped Sigvald, glaring at the faceless man. “These aren’t platitudes, I’m simply…” his words trailed off as he realised that as soon as he spoke, the scribe ceased scribbling and kept his forest of limbs hovering over the paper, waiting for the daemon to continue.
“Without showing an ounce of contrition, Sigvald insulted Belus Pül’s only remaining friend and refused to even acknowledge his own neglect.” As the daemon spoke, the scribe began transcribing its words again. It was clear from the reams of text he was producing that the strange creature must be elaborating wildly on the daemon’s words.
Sigvald’s eyes bulged with rage and he opened his mouth to hurl an insult at the pair of them.
“My lord,” grunted Oddrún, stepping into the orchard and placing a hand on Sigvald’s shoulder. “We should leave while we can. This is pointless.”
“A grotesque, jangling sack of limbs dragged itself before the regal gaze of the deity,” continued the daemon. “To Belus Pül’s horror, it realised that the wretched thing was Sigvald’s perverse childhood companion—the one who had been so vile and insulting many years earlier.” The daemon’s face remained emotionless as it continued its gentle stream of vitriol. “The benevolent deity was shocked to think that Sigvald would so compound his negligence by continuing to consort with such an ugly dullard.”
Sigvald took a deep breath to calm himself and stepped closer to the daemon. As he neared the swing, he dropped to one knee and lowered his head. “Belus, you are my eternal guardian, my one true love. If there’s anything I can do to ease the pain I’ve caused you, I beg you to tell me.”
The daemon finally showed a sign of emotion. Its eyes glittered with tears as it held out a hand for Sigvald to kiss. As it moved its arm, a disparate collection of items jangled over its skin: bangles, chains and rings of various styles and sizes, none of which seemed in keeping with the being’s simple attire.
As the prince obeyed the command and pressed his lips to the daemon’s pale flesh, he felt his skin blistering and quickly withdrew. The heat pouring through the daemon’s pores was no surprise to him—he knew all too well the incredible power contained within its unassuming figure. This close up, it was hard for him to even look at Belus—even after a lifetime of witnessing atrocities, his eyes were unwilling to focus on such an abomination. The daemon’s attempts to appear angelic and serene only succeeded in drawing attention to its essential wrongness. It did not quite belong in the real world—almost like a figure torn from one painting and plastered over the top of another. Everything about it was too bright, too saturated or too sharply focussed.
A faint smile pursed the daemon’s lips and it took another long sniff of the lily. “As the proud young prince realised the terrible extent of his guardian’s hurt, he finally began to feel some remorse and, seeing this, the kindly deity relented. So great was Belus Pül’s love for all its children that it could no longer gird its heart against Sigvald’s pitiful entreaties. Belus Pül had long ago given its heart to Sigvald, and could not bear to stay angry with him for long.”
Sigvald’s jaw clenched as he heard the scribe begin to scratch at the parchment again.
The daemon withdrew its hand and patted the swing, indicating that Sigvald should sit on the knotted oak.
As the prince sat down, the daemon kept its gaze in the middle distance, as though blind to his presence. After a few seconds of silence it waved its flower at Oddrún. “Finally seeing the callous nature of his actions, Sigvald banished the grotesque monster from the deity’s presence.”
Sigvald sighed and looked over at his chancellor, but before he had chance to speak, the giant shuffled back towards the pavilion’s entrance, clearly glad to escape.
Once Oddrún was gone, the daemon began rocking the swing gently back and forth and took Sigvald’s hand. “Despite the passage of the years, the benevolent deity still felt a close bond with the prince and sensed that even with all his assumed majesty and pomp he might not be above amusing his patron with a few simple distractions.” The daemon fluttered its long eyelashes and briefly met Sigvald’s eye. “After all, Belus’ kindness had been so great, all those years earlier, that it did not seem unreasonable to expect a little more entertainment.”
Sigvald loosed the daemon’s hand and stopped the swing. “Maybe we could come to a new agreement?” he said. “I’ve done everything you wished, Belus. I’ve indulged every whim in your name. No pleasure, however slight, has been beneath my notice, and all of it has been for you.”
The daemon rose slowly from the swing and walked over towards the scribe. There was a barely discernable note of amusement in its voice as it answered. “Incredibly, the young prince seemed to expert some new favour despite the fact that Belus Pül had heard nothing of
his exploits for two centuries. But even as he spoke the words, Sigvald’s dreadful arrogance faltered. The ungrateful child realised that in return for any new gift, it would only be right that he offer something new. As he pondered this, and all his other treacheries, it occurred to Sigvald that maybe he should offer to complete three simple trials—nothing too strenuous for a man of his stature, but enough to amuse his dear, lonely old friend.”
Sigvald glared at one of the items glinting on the daemon’s right arm. It was a bronze torque—crudely made and far too ugly to be worn by such a regal being—but at that moment he would have given anything for it. “So,” he hissed, clenching his teeth, “even a man’s soul isn’t enough for one such as you.” He felt his rage boil up through his chest and let it out in a furious yell. He leapt from the swing and drew his sword, swinging it wildly at the daemon’s arm.
The blade passed through the daemon as easily as smoke. Belus Pül’s body undulated briefly, like a reflection in water, but the daemon did not acknowledge the attack, even as Sigvald slammed heavily to the ground and howled in frustration.
The enraged prince leapt back to his feet and tried another lunge. Again, the blade passed straight through the daemon without making contact and, again, Sigvald crashed to the ground. He lay still for a few seconds breathing heavily, then spoke in taut, clipped tones. “You’re playing me for a fool,” he said, without looking up from the grass, “but so be it. If I indulge you in this, will you guarantee me success? Will you give me the strength to defeat my enemy, Mord Huk? Will you promise me his corpse, and his possessions?”
The daemon’s blank face creased into a broad smile. It turned its doe-like eyes on Sigvald. “Belus was touched by the prince’s kind offer. The deity was even more delighted when the prince explained the nature of his first errand. The humbled prince reminded the divine being of an ancient fable, concerning a great, two-headed drake of elven legend. Sigvald reminded Belus Pül that this fascinating creature was called Galrauch and that it had long ago fled from an elven realm—devoting its life to the service of the Great Architect, Tzeentch. Belus Pül was delighted to hear that the creature dwelled in a mountain lair not far away, and that Sigvald intended to seek out the beast and return with one of its talons—something the deity had long sought.”
Sigvald frowned. “Galrauch? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Then he shrugged. “Still, what harm can a dragon do me? However many heads it has?” He climbed to his feet and dusted a few blades of grass from his gold armour. “Very well, Belus,” he said, eyeing the daemon with suspicion. “Tell me the way.”
The daemon continued to grace Sigvald with its terrifying, benevolent smile for a few seconds longer, then it strolled over to the scribe, peering at the paper as the creature held it up for inspection. Eventually, the daemon nodded, apparently satisfied, and continued dictating. “So it was that as he watched the pale light filtering down through the juniper blossom and glinting in Belus Pül’s kind, tearful eyes, Sigvald felt all the shame and unworthiness of his position. He knew that even in the pursuit of pleasure, it is not enough to be a dilettante, so he resolved to complete the three trials with as much alacrity and dignity as possible. After all, what gift could be too generous for the blessed being that had ensured him an eternity of pleasure?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sigvald felt as though his soul might burst with happiness. As he hauled himself up onto the highest peak of the mountain his eyes were streaming with tears and his heart was pounding in his chest. “By the gods!” he howled, shielding his face from the fierce, ice-laden wind and squinting down into the valley. “Where have we come? Where have we come?”
A scene of incredible, awful beauty was spread out before him. The whole, frozen landscape was boiling and rolling, as though dragged aloft by the fury of the storm. Great, knotted limbs of rock reached up into the sky in an orgy of heaving granite, while overhead the moons flickered from emerald to cerise, lighting up the snow and glinting along the carcasses of vast, silver-scaled leviathans, swimming lazily through the clouds, each of them bristling with tattered, lateen sails and garish turquoise fins. He realised that they were enormous airborne ships, carved from the hollowed remains of monstrous sea creatures. Other things swam in their wake: bloated fish, with dangling, insectoid limbs and cawing, avian voices swam ahead of pink, featherless birds, with ruby coloured gowns and pale, human faces. The whole surreal carnival was circling a mountain even higher than those surrounding it. This tallest peak was made of a different rock than the others. As the twin moons flickered overhead, pinks and blues were refracted in its crags and facets, rippling across slopes that seemed to be carved from a single, colossal diamond.
Sigvald laughed through his tears. “Look at that,” he cried, shaking his head. As he looked around in amazement, he spotted a crowd of disembodied shadows, flitting in and out of the storm. They were tall and willowy and whirling around each other in a frenetic, giggling dance; blowing long trumpets that filled peaks and valleys with a piercing, tuneless din. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Oddrún was standing a few feet below him, clutching grimly to the shattered remains of a tree. The daemon had ordered Sigvald to leave his army behind, but had insisted he take Oddrún, so the lumbering chancellor had been forced to trail miserably after the prince for the last three days. Oddrún shook his huge cowled head, too exhausted from the climb to reply. Then he backed away from the tree with a grunt of disgust. Hundreds of tiny black shapes were scuttling across the white bark and onto his arms. To his horror, he saw that they were miniscule, whispering men, with glinting, chitinous limbs. As he staggered away, he dusted some of them from his sackcloth robes, cursing under his breath and lurching back and forth across the icy rocks in an effort to escape them.
The prince laughed even harder when saw Oddrún’s panicked dance. “Finally, you’re entering into the spirit of things,” he cried, his voice edged with hysteria.
Oddrún continued whirling around for a few moments, waving his clumsy limbs and flicking the spider people from his clothes. Then he collapsed into the snow with a groan, clutching his head in his hands.
“Ask the doctor where we are,” Sigvald demanded, once he had managed to stifle his laughter.
Oddrún pulled the gold casket from his robes and slid back the lid.
Doctor Schliemann’s head was already beginning to rot. His gaunt features had taken on a grey-green hue and networks of black veins had spread over his face. His wire-rimmed spectacles had slid down his long, hooked nose and as he turned his eyes on the prince, they were clouded and blind.
“Where are we, old friend?” cried Sigvald, dropping from the ledge, grabbing the casket and holding it up in front of his face. He grimaced at the smell of putrefaction but kept the head close as he waited for an answer.
The doctor’s reply sounded flat and inhuman. “The edge of reason. The edge of the Shadowlands. The shifting borders of the mortal realm.” He paused to cough up a thick clot of dried blood. “As we approach the immaterial kingdoms, logic will begin to fragment. It may become hard to conceive rational thoughts, or even to maintain physical form.” He ran a bloated, black tongue over his lips. “Continue much further and the tides of magic will tear you apart.”
Sigvald rolled his eyes and let out a dismissive “Pah!”, then he loosed the casket. It bounced away over the rocks, shedding screws and springs before spinning off into a deep drift. Sigvald turned away with a look of rapt awe on his face. “This is the edge of everything, Oddrún,” he whispered, looking out at the tortured mountains and the screaming, daemon-filled heavens. “Where life itself begins anew.” He shook his head. “How can I have been so idle, with such wonders still to be seen?”
Oddrún scrambled across the slope and plucked the casket from the snow. The lid had slammed shut when it hit the rocks, so he shoved it back and peered in at the doctor’s head. There was a fresh rent in his cold skin, revealing a flash of white skull, but no blood was
flowing from the wound. He studied the doctor’s scarred, tortured features for a few seconds then let out a roar of anguish. “You can’t treat him like this!” he cried, grabbing Sigvald’s shoulder and shoving him back.
The prince stumbled and teetered on the edge of the precipice. His eyes widened with excitement as he leant out into the void, with only Oddrún’s long, trembling arm between him and death. He let out another burst of rippling laughter that spiralled up into the whirling snow. “Are you going to kill me now, Oddrún?” he cried, making no effort to steady himself. “Will you murder me, after all?”
Oddrún held Sigvald there for a few seconds, trembling with rage. Then he mumbled something into the folds of his hood and heaved him back to safety.
“Hand me that,” snapped Sigvald, giving his chancellor a mocking sneer as he took the battered casket. “Now. Where exactly are we, Doctor Schliemann? You told me you could lead us to the home of the Great Drake.”
“I have. These are Galrauch’s hunting grounds. The particular strangeness of the landscape is due to the distorting influence of its master, the sorcerer, Tzeentch.”
Sigvald nodded. “So where do we find it? Where is our prize?”
“The Great Drake is tormented by its past. It was once a creature of great intellect, but that intellect has become utterly warped by Chaos. When it’s not feasting on its victims, it hides its shame beneath a crystal mountain, surrounding itself with fractured reflections and torturing itself with paranoid delusions and half-remembered oaths.”
“A crystal mountain? Of course.” Sigvald looked back over the valley at the glinting peak on the far side. “So that’s its home.” He took one last look at the monstrous beasts drifting overhead, then began to clamber down the far side of the mountain. “Keep up, Oddrún,” he cried, giving the giant a playful smile as he scrambled down the slope. “Who knows when you might have another chance to rid yourself of me?”
04 - Sigvald Page 19
