04 - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Ansgallür opened his mouth a little wider, allowing a treacly substance to run down his chin. “Haven’t we had fun, princess?” he asked. “Are you really so eager to leave?”

  “How dare you handle me like this, servant,” she wailed straining in his grip.

  “It gives me no pleasure,” he lied, pulling her closer, “but you know I must keep you safe until the Geld-Prince returns.”

  Freydís let out a hysterical burst of laughter. “He’s never coming back, you idiot. Don’t you see? He’s abandoned us both.”

  Ansgallür’s watery eyes narrowed for a second and his face crumpled into a frown. “What a ridiculous thing to say,” he replied, but there was a slight edge of doubt in his voice. He waved at the grand architecture that surrounded them. “The Gilded Palace is his home. We are his beloved family.” His voice grew more confident and he smiled. “You’re trying to trick me, Freydís.” He waved one of his limbs at the struggling priest. “I’m not so easily beguiled as some. I know Sigvald would never abandon us.”

  Brother Bürmann watched in horror as the life seemed to go out of Freydís. After glaring furiously at Ansgallür for a few seconds, she slumped in his grip, accepting defeat with a last, mumbled curse.

  Remembering his other catch, Ansgallür turned towards the priest. He moistened his lips as he studied Bürmann’s scrawny limbs. “Such hungry work,” he muttered, lifting the priest from the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sigvald paused and listened. A voice was muttering to itself in the darkness. When the mouth closed behind him, the walls had contracted in a violent muscle spasm and hurled him into a void. He was unsure how far he had fallen before slamming down onto moist, trembling flesh, but for the last half an hour he had seen no trace of light. “What’s that?” he whispered. The voice was mumbling gibberish, but he made for it anyway, stumbling off through the warm, pulsing passageway. After a while, his feet clattered onto solid rock and he began to make out a faint glow somewhere up ahead. The prince picked up his pace. He was not afraid, but he had an awful suspicion that he might have bruised his face in the fall, and he was desperate to check his reflection in the surface of his mirrored shield.

  He entered a vast chamber, filled with moonlight. The distant ceiling was made up entirely of crystals that filtered the light down onto the rocks in thousands of dazzling columns. Sigvald stumbled to a halt, breathless at the beauty of the place. Then he remembered his fall and lifted his shield in front of his face. He sighed with relief. His skin was as flawless as ever.

  “My lord,” croaked a voice. “Over here.”

  Sigvald drew his sword in a quick, fluid movement and levelled it in the direction of the sound. On the far side of the chamber, animated by the shifting moonlight, was a mound of corpses. He stepped closer. “Who’s there?”

  Most of the remains were unrecognisable—a messy jumble of severed limbs and glistening innards—but there was one large body at the top of the pile that was still intact. It was a fat, ruddy-faced man, wearing a drooping felt hat and clutching a long gun. As Sigvald stepped towards him, the man held up a chubby, ring-laden hand and waved the prince closer. “My lord,” he gasped, his voice trembling with excitement. “It’s not too late. We can flee. We can still escape. If we move quickly. Before the beast returns.”

  As Sigvald reached the pile of corpses, he noticed the impressive collection of rich furs that were stretched over the man’s rotund body. They must have originated from every corner of the Old World—he could barely recognise half of them. Then he saw that the fat man’s legs were broken, folded beneath him at a hideously unnatural angle. “The beast?” he asked, eyeing the stranger suspiciously.

  The man’s face was ashen and pouring with sweat and he spat his words out in a high-pitched staccato, clearly in immense pain. “Yes, my lord. A great dragon. It haunts the mountain.” He grimaced and rolled his eyes as he dragged himself into a sitting position. His small eyes bulged as he leant towards the prince. “It’s a labyrinth. It’s designed to confuse the dragon’s victims.” He tried to grin, but without much success. “Take me with you. I can show you a way out.”

  Sigvald laughed. “I’ve no desire to leave.”

  The man’s grin faltered. He waved at the bodies that surrounded them. “The monster is insatiable,” he said, with a note of panic in his voice. “If we leave now, we could survive. Let me lead you to the exit.”

  Sigvald pursed his lips as he studied the man’s gun. “You’re some kind of huntsman,” he announced.

  The man’s eyes filled with terror. “That’s not the point! We need to leave.” He looked anxiously over at an opening on the far side of the chamber.

  Sigvald followed his gaze and nodded, realising that must be the way to Galrauch’s lair. He tapped the man’s gun with his foot and frowned. “Did you really think you could subdue the monster with this? Did you have any kind of plan?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he saw another chance for a deal. “A plan? Yes. I had a plan.” He removed his felt cap for a moment and mopped his brow. Then he gave Sigvald a coy smile. “There’s only one way to defeat the beast.” He tried to control his breathing. “Maybe we could come to some kind of an agreement?”

  Sigvald’s nostrils flared. He was clearly horrified at the suggestion. “An agreement?”

  “Why not? If you’re determined to fight the thing, I’ll tell you how. Just take me with you when you leave.” He saw the disdain in Sigvald’s face. “You’re clearly a more noble soul than me, lord, but you need a guide. You could wander through these caverns for an eternity. Just free me from this wretched hole.” He looked up at Sigvald with terror in his eyes. “Promise me.”

  Sigvald did not answer for a few seconds and when he did, his voice was trembling with suppressed emotion. “I promise.”

  The man’s face lit up in a jowly grin. “You don’t have much time,” he gasped, waving at the pile of bodies that surrounded him. “Dig.” He slapped the bloody mound beneath him. “Somewhere under here you’ll find a music box.”

  “A music box?”

  “Yes!” The man nodded furiously, waving at the corpses. “Be quick. The beast will return soon.”

  Sigvald gave him a quizzical look. “How exactly will a music box help?”

  The man sighed impatiently and began reaching down into the bodies, rifling through pockets and tearing open bloodstained jackets. “The dragon has two heads,” he said. “Both of them are mad. The left is full of malice and the right is full of shame. It’s haunted by memories of when it served the elves of Ulthuan, countless centuries ago.” He grinned as his fingers locked around something, but his smile turned into a grimace as he lifted up a shattered piece of hip bone. He dropped it with a curse and continued rummaging. “For most of the time, the left head is dominant. Up here, on the borders of the Realm of Chaos, it has the upper hand. The Ruinous Powers control everything.”

  “What has this got to do with music?”

  “Occasionally, the dragon’s memories overwhelm it with guilt, and the right head attempts to destroy its treacherous body. It tries to end its own life. It tries to atone for its misdeeds. Whenever that happens there’s carnage. The two heads tear into each other.” He gasped as one of the bodies fell on his broken legs. “Chaos is always victorious. The right head is always defeated by the left.” He grinned up at Sigvald. “But as the dragon is busy warring with itself, you can strike. You’re a brave soul. You could seize the opportunity. You could thrust your sword into its heart.”

  Sigvald shook his head, still confused. “And the music box?”

  “An elven relic,” gasped the man, slapping the blood-slick limbs that surrounded him. “Made centuries ago. If the dragon’s right head hears the melody, its thoughts will be hurled back through time. It will be consumed by shame and fury. Even a couple of notes of true elven music will do the trick. Open the lid of the box. The heads will fight. I guarantee it.”

  Sigvald looked unconvince
d and waved at the mound of corpses. “Really? Your plan does not seem to have been very successful so far.”

  The man glared at the bodies. “My men failed me.” He waved at the glittering walls of the cavern. “There’s something strange down here. The whole place is made of mirrors, but the reflections are all wrong. And these pea-brained oafs were so easily distracted. You wouldn’t believe how much I had to pay them even to enter this place and then, when the monster pounced, they were too busy to warn me. They were all looking at their own ugly faces. I had no time to trigger the music.” As he recalled the incident, the man began to tremble even more violently. He looked down at his ruined legs, as though noticing them for the first time, and started making a pitiful whining sound.

  Sigvald stroked his jaw as he considered the man’s words. “Very well,” he replied, raising a finger to his mouth. “Keep calm, friend. I believe you. Let’s find this elven toy.” He grabbed the nearest corpse and shoved it aside. “What does it look like?”

  The man forgot his pain for a second and grinned. “Small. Silver. Engraved with suns and moons. You can’t miss it.”

  Sigvald nodded and began flinging bodies in all directions, grimacing at the blood and gore but working with a determined efficiency. Several minutes passed this way, with Sigvald digging and the hunter yelling frantic directions and jabbing his fleshy fingers every time he saw a flash of metal. Finally, Sigvald dragged himself free of the corpses and staggered away, gasping for breath.

  “Don’t stop!” wailed the man. “There’s no other way. Don’t give up.”

  Sigvald spent a few seconds wiping the blood from his armour and muttering curses, then he stepped back towards the pile of bodies and held out his hand to the hunter. He was holding a small box made of intricately filigreed silver.

  “That’s it!” cried the man, leaning forward to snatch it.

  Sigvald raised his eyebrows and stepped back, keeping the box out of the man’s reach. He held it up into a shaft of light and rolled it between his finger and thumb, admiring the craftsmanship. It was slightly dented on one side, but otherwise quite beautiful. “How does it open?” he asked. “There’s no catch.”

  “Don’t trigger it,” gasped the hunter, slumping back against the corpses. “Its mechanism is delicate beyond belief. It took me hours to wind it. And I don’t know how long it will play for.”

  Sigvald nodded. “Very well, but I’ll need to know when the time comes.”

  “There’s a sun on the lid. It’s larger than the others.”

  The prince turned the box around and peered at it. “The one with a face?”

  “Yes, the one with a face. When the dragon’s almost on you, press the sun down until it clicks. The box will pop open and play a tune.”

  Sigvald nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the archway.

  “Wait!” screamed the hunter. “What about me? You promised you’d free me from this wretched place!”

  Sigvald laughed and shook his head. “Of course,” he cried, stepping back towards the bodies.

  As the hunter held out his hand, Sigvald drew his sword and shoved it straight through his heart.

  “Consider yourself free,” he whispered, with his face only an inch from the hunter’s.

  The man’s eyes bulged in shock. Then, as Sigvald withdrew the blade, he slumped back against the corpses, as lifeless as his servants.

  Sigvald calmly wiped his rapier on the man’s luxurious furs and strolled back towards the archway. It led into a broad passage carved from the same glittering crystals as everything else. As he headed away from the cavern, the moonlight seemed to follow him—flashing and pulsing in the rock, even after he had turned several winding corners and climbed down a long, narrow stair. He peered up at the jagged ceiling and wondered how the light could reach so far down. “Mirrors,” he muttered under his breath, remembering the hunter’s words. “They must be designed to bounce the light down here somehow.”

  He paused and stepped closer to the wall. His face swam into view, rippling across the sparkling crystals. He frowned. “Is that me?” His features were exploded over the surface of the rock—fragmented into a jumble of eyes and noses. He looked closer and saw that something else was mixed up with his reflection: black, featureless eyes and iridescent blue feathers. He opened his mouth to speak and saw it reflected as a lurid yellow beak, screaming silently back at him. Sigvald frowned. This must be what the hunter was referring to. A less developed mind would probably be terrified by such a distorted image.

  His courage faltered as he edged closer to the wall. The nearer he got, the more his face splintered and changed. Then he focussed on a single facet of the rock, showing one of his clear, blue eyes. “Perfect,” he sighed. His heart pounded as he recalled just how handsome he was. Even after all the incredible sights of the last few days, he could think of nothing to match his own, peerless beauty. With a contented sigh, he turned away from the rock and carried on down the passageway.

  As he made his way down into the bowels of the mountain, the air grew even colder. His breath trailed after him in sparkling, dewy clouds and ice began to stiffen the joints of his armour. Progress was slow. His limbs jerked marionette-like and every few moments he would be distracted by a strange reflection of his own face. Each piece of mirrored rock revealed something even more bizarre, but each time Sigvald managed to focus on one of his own noble features and move on again with a smile.

  After half a mile, he reached another set of stairs, but this time they led down into a darkness too profound to be pierced by the refracted moonlight. He paused and listened for a moment. There was a low rumbling sound drifting up from the inky depths. “Galrauch,” he muttered, gripping the music box a little tighter as he began to climb down. He used his free hand to feel his way along the wall and took tiny, careful steps. He had no desire to tumble into a crevasse and give himself an ugly scar. As he descended, his feet crunched against something. He froze, listening to see if the breathing sound had changed. It carried on rumbling just as before and he sighed with relief. Then he crouched down low, trying to see what he had kicked. The darkness was complete, but as he ran his fingers over the steps, they brushed against an unmistakeable shape: a human skull. Unsurprised, he carried on.

  Sigvald stumbled awkwardly and realised there were no more steps. The rumbling sound of breathing surrounded him as he drew his sword and edged slowly forwards.

  A bone exploded beneath his foot with a loud crack.

  The breathing stopped.

  Sigvald grinned in the dark, positioning his thumb over the elven toy as a pair of eyes appeared in front of him, each the size of a dinner plate and burning with crimson fire.

  “Galrauch,” said Sigvald, without a trace of fear. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

  As the eyes swung slowly around, independent of each other, their baleful glow shimmered over an ancient, scaled hide, hinting at a creature of incredible size.

  Sigvald waited until the monster was so close he could feel its warm breath rippling through his hair. Finally, as a row of talons settled on the ground just a few feet away from him, he pressed the button. There was a satisfying click and the lid dropped to the ground. Delicate needles of sunlight fanned out from the box, flashing over the rocks and glinting over the scales of the monstrous creature. Then, with a clicking, whirring buzz, a tiny silver wren rose serenely from the box.

  Sigvald’s grin froze on his face.

  As the wren emerged, he saw that it was slumped at an odd, drunken angle. With a rush of horror he recalled the dent in the side of the box.

  The bird opened its beak and a thin, tuneless screech echoed through the darkness.

  As the awful sound faded, Sigvald held his breath and looked up into the bloody orbs hovering over him.

  Then he dived across the ground.

  As Sigvald rolled away, there was a huge explosion of light and sound. A column of fire lashed over the rocks where he had been standing, billowing up over the ce
iling and revealing a vast cavern piled high with bones.

  The prince tumbled onto his feet and sprinted, feeling his hair shrivelling on the back of his head.

  Flames rolled and mushroomed over the rocks as Sigvald dived for cover, landing heavily behind a pile of bones. “Idiot,” he cursed, glaring at the crooked wren in his hand. He threw the toy on the ground and stamped on it, scattering screws, cogs and springs over the rocks.

  Over on the far side of the cavern, the dragon heaved its massive bulk in his direction, raising its tattered wings over its heads.

  Sigvald gasped. As flames spiralled around it, he saw that the monster was over thirty feet tall. Its ancient, crimson scales were lined with terrible wounds and its long neck was split right down the middle. He realised that rather than being two-headed, the creature had simply torn its original head into two halves. As he watched in disbelief, the two sides of the head snaked around each other, roaring furiously and drooling liquid fire.

  Sigvald ducked as the creature launched another torrent of flames. His armour scorched his skin and he felt his hair shrivelling again, filling his nostrils with an acrid stink. He cursed and lifted his shield from his back. Then he rolled and charged from behind the rock with the circle of mirrored steel held up before his face.

  Before the dragon had chance to draw another breath, he leapt up onto one of its legs and plunged his blade deep into its thigh.

  The monster let out another deafening screech and lashed out with a huge, forked tail. Its fury was so intense that it smashed a hole through the wall, revealing another, smaller cavern.

  Sigvald threw himself through the explosion of crystals and smoke and crashed to the ground in the newly revealed cave.

  Galrauch whirled around, smashing even more of the wall as it rounded on the prince.