A WARHAMMER NOVEL
SIGVALD
Heroes - 04
Darius Hinks
(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
The Decadent Host
Prince Sigvald the Magnificent
A champion of Slaanesh
Freydís
Sigvald’s wife; Princess of the Gilded Palace
Oddrún (Narrerback)
Chancellor of the Gilded Palace
Baron Gustav Schüler
A proud Empire knight, recently arrived at the Gilded Palace
Doctor Rusas Schliemann
Formerly an Empire scholar, now a devotee of Slaanesh
Ansgallür the Famished
Freydís’ guardian
Víga-Barói
A captain of the Decadent Host
Hazül
Viga-Barói’s chief surgeon
Brother Bürmann
Víga-Barói’s mute slave
Énka
Sigvald’s most powerful sorcerer
The Fallen
Hauk
Chieftain of a Norscan tribe called the Fallen
Sväla the Witch
A Norscan queen and prophet (wife of Hauk)
Svärd
A young Norscan tribesman (Hauk and Sväla’s son)
Valdür the Old
An elderly Norscan tribesman (Hauk’s oldest friend)
Ungaur the Blessed
A Norscan shaman and religious rival of Sväla
Rurik Iron Fist
Chieftain of the Drekar tribe
Halldórr the Black
A Kurgan chieftain
Sturll the Hewer
A Norscan chieftain
Lørden
A Norscan scout
Æstrid
A young Norscan woman
Ürsüla
An elderly Norscan witch
Völtar the Wolf
A deity worshipped by the Fallen
Others
Mord Huk
A champion of Khorne, with the head of a ferocious hound
Olandír
The lone inhabitant of a remote island off the coast of the Chaos Wastes
Belus Pül
A daemon of Slaanesh
Einvarr
Belus Pül’s envoy
Galrauch
A two-headed Tzeentchian dragon
Bargau the Soulless
An ancient immortal from prehistory
PROLOGUE
A man emerged from the shadows, his bulky frame silhouetted by the glow of a single candle. As the light danced around him it revealed other shapes: the walls of a small hut hung with animal bones, scraps of parchment scattered across the ground, and, in the centre of the room, a pale corpse, strapped to a sacrificial stone and scored with dozens of precise, angular knife wounds. The body was surrounded by a fan of sparkling crimson as its blood drained down a network of narrow channels, before pattering into a collection of hammered brass cups.
“I’ve given you our bravest,” grunted the man, waving at the body and staring into the darkness. His voice sounded harsh and strange, as if there was something metallic in his mouth, and as he turned towards the candlelight, it revealed a snarling wolfskin, draped over his head. “Now will you speak?”
There was no reply. The only sound came from the blood, splashing into the cups.
The man rose up to his full, impressive height and kicked one of them across the ground, filling the chamber with noise and splattering blood up the wall. “What’s the answer?” he cried, pounding his fist on the corpse’s chest.
Still there was no reply and the man cursed, dropping a long, curved knife to the ground as he turned to leave.
Only then did he notice the wall. The blood he had kicked from the cup was forming itself into shapes as it trickled downwards, scrawling words across the ancient stone.
He gasped and stumbled to a halt. Then he grabbed the candle and held it up to the glistening characters. His eyes widened in recognition as he realised it was a fragment of an old saga.
He leant closer and began to read.
Across the ice,
through the snow,
a Geld-Prince,
swaddled in lust.
He cursed again and smeared the blood across the wall, frantically wiping his palms over the uneven stone until every trace of the words had been obscured.
For a few seconds he stood in silence, trembling and glaring at the bloody rock. Then he muttered a single word, his voice full of fear.
“Sigvald.”
CHAPTER ONE
Far in the distance, beneath the grumbling black belly of the sky, a triangular star had appeared. It had not been visible from the other side of the valley, but now it was unmistakeable: a glittering bauble, hung low over cruel, magisterial peaks. The baron massaged his sunken cheeks and leant forward in his saddle, peering out across a vast, frozen lake, hypnotised by the flickering light. For nearly three months he had led his men north, into regions of madness and endless night, and all the time, his determination had been ebbing away—leeched out of him by the appalling visions he had endured. Now, with fewer than six hundred men left and his body ruined by starvation and cold, he wondered if his mind had finally gone. There were no stars in the Shadowlands, only eternal darkness. Yet, when he rubbed his eyes and looked again, the light was still there, taunting him.
He looked down at his wasted limbs and asked himself if, even now, he might find what he came for. “Could this be hope?” he whispered.
He pointed the light out to his men and they nodded weakly in reply, steering their dying horses after him as he clattered across the ice.
The soldiers climbed the other side of the valley and after a while they realised it was not a star at all. They shook their heads in wonder as they saw that the light was a beautiful castle, hanging impossibly in the sky. The building flashed and glittered in the moonlight as immense banks of snow spiralled around it. It was made entirely of gold.
The baron urged his horse to pick up its pace, but then, with the building just half a mile away, he hesitated. He saw it quite clearly now: a vast, domed palace, drifting on the icy breeze and defying all laws of logic. He shook his head, still doubting his eyes. Even on the ground it would have seemed a miracle: a bewildering forest of turrets and towers, peopled with armies of leering grotesques. The scale of the construction was unbelievable. Every soaring pinnacle was succeeded by an even taller spir
e, until the eye grew utterly bewildered and returned, exhausted, to the huge front gates. A broad stair swept down from the palace in great serpentine curves, resting on the snow like the stem of a colossal gold flower.
The baron dragged his gaze from the fantastic building as one of the other riders called out to him. The snowdrifts nearby had gathered into jagged shapes, like sheets draped over a corpse. He signalled for his men to investigate and, despite their obvious fear, they dropped from their horses and struggled awkwardly through the snow. Upon reaching the mounds they began to dig, using swords drawn from within their oiled cloaks. The men gasped as they revealed a block of dented gold. Avarice gave them strength and within minutes they had uncovered a toppled statue. Like the palace hanging over them, it was cast entirely in gold, but it was not the lustre of the metal that took their breath away, it was the artist’s subject. The statue portrayed a young man, a noble, clad in plate armour and roaring with laughter as he pointed up towards the palace. The face was so handsome and full of joy that the men lowered their swords and backed away in awe. Dents and scratches covered the metal, but the statue’s eyes shone with vitality and humour. A lusty energy poured out of it. The men had never seen such a blissful, beautiful image of fulfilment. As they studied the lines of the face they found themselves grinning idiotically.
For a few moments the baron was silent, staring at the statue with the same inane expression as the others. Then he shook his head, closed his mouth and waved at the other shapes. His men rushed to obey and soon uncovered dozens of identical statues, all laughing and pointing towards the palace. They had all been toppled, like the first, and some had clearly been attacked—limbs and even heads were missing in some cases—but all of them were beautiful. Faced with these smiling, divine figures, the baron overcame his doubt and dismounted, marching through the snow towards the floating palace.
The other soldiers followed suit, tethering their horses to the foot of the stair and climbing after the baron with dazed, gleeful expressions on their faces.
As his boots clanged up the gold stairs, the baron regained a little of his former strength and dignity. He dusted the ice from his beard and turned up the ends of his wide moustache. All trace of exhaustion dropped away from him as he followed the wide curves of the stairway. He did not seem to notice that the steps were as dented as the statues; nor that many of them were slumped and buckled, without any sign of repair.
There was a screech of grinding metal. The baron looked up to see a door opening beneath a grand, latticed portico. At first it seemed as if the door had opened by its own volition, but as he and the other soldiers reached the top steps, they saw a group of figures marching out to greet them. The baron’s eyes glittered with excitement as twelve gleaming knights clattered out. They wore sculpted purple armour and each of them carried a sword and a circular, mirrored shield. They were almost as dazzling as the statues: tall, fair and perfectly poised as they formed a phalanx in front of the door.
Then the baron’s smile faltered. He dropped a hand to his longsword as a robed figure stooped beneath the doorframe and lurched out into the moonlight. The knights were all over six feet, but the hooded figure that followed them was half as tall again. Even its great height did not seem to tell the whole story: its dirty, hessian robes were stretched over long, knotted muscles and a humped, ridged back. It resembled a sack, filled with long sticks and animated by an invisible puppeteer, who steered it clumsily towards the riders, keeping its head down and its face hidden in shadow.
The baron stood proudly to attention, signalling for his men to do the same.
The giant lumbered towards them and came to a halt a few feet away. As it loomed over him, the baron noticed dozens of tiny shapes, scurrying beneath its robes. The sound of laboured breathing came from within the folds of its hood, followed by a low growling noise. It seemed as though the thing were trying to speak.
“I’m Gustav Schüler,” said the baron, thrusting out his stiff beard and pulling back his shoulders. He looked like a reanimated corpse. His blistered skin was stretched horribly over his protruding cheekbones and his lips were cracked and blue, but the baron carried his breeding like a badge of honour. He strode through the snowstorm, determined to appear undaunted. “I demand entry.”
Another stream of rasping vowels emerged from within the hood.
The baron shook his head impatiently. “I can’t understand.” He turned to the stony-faced knights. “I can’t understand him. Is he a daemon? Are you all daemons?”
The knights gave no response. In fact, they did not even seem to see the baron, so he turned once more to the hooded giant, raising his voice even louder in an attempt to be heard over the wind. “Can you understand me?” His voice was edged with fury as he stepped closer. “We’re dying. We have nowhere else to go.”
The hooded giant looked down at him in silence for a few seconds, swaying slightly, as though struggling to balance on its long, crooked legs. Then it spoke again. The words were still little more than a guttural snarl, but they were now in a language the baron could understand. “Then you have my pity,” it said, slumping to one side and waving the baron towards the open door.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said the baron as he limped down a vast hallway. The long journey north had replaced several of his toes with blackened stumps, and every step sent needles of pain into his feet, but the grandeur of the architecture drew him on. The vaulted ceilings were so high that he could barely make them out in the torchlight. If it wasn’t for the distant glitter of ribbed gold, he might have been walking through the night sky. The giant gave no reply as it led the baron onwards. This was the fourth long hallway they had passed down, and it had maintained a stony silence every step of the way. They were utterly alone and the baron burned with questions.
“What about my men?” he asked. The baron had allowed the knights to lead his exhausted soldiers away without a word of protest. It had seemed quite natural to entrust his men to such noble guardians, but now, as his thoughts began to clear a little, he felt a terrible rush of guilt. What had he been thinking? He looked anxiously over his shoulder but could see no sign of the entrance.
The giant still gave no reply and the baron shook his head, ashamed at how easily he had been distracted. “What could I have done?” he muttered, tugging anxiously at his beard and stumbling to a halt. “There’s no fight left in any of them. They’re at death’s door.” As he looked up at the faded grandeur of the palace, he realised that whatever happened now, all of their fates were in the hands of its master. He must be either saviour or executioner, for all of them.
The baron hurried on, shaking his head in disbelief as he left the first building and approached another. Rather than being just one palace, as it appeared outside, he now saw that this was a collection of palaces, each larger and grander than the one before. The further he went though, the harder it was to ignore the decay: the buildings seemed abandoned. This far in there was no trace of a breeze and a thick layer of dust had settled over the gold, painting everything a maudlin grey. Mirrors as tall as trees lined the walls, but many of the gilt frames were broken and great cracks had spread across the glass. Alongside the mirrors were huge portraits of the grinning figure whose statue the baron had seen outside. Each vast image portrayed the young noble as he overcame a series of monstrous foes, and each one was painted in the most incredible, vivid colours. Decades of dust had settled over them, however, and the noble’s face looked out from behind a curtain of cobwebs.
After an hour of marching in silence, the baron began to hear sounds. As he stumbled down another endless corridor he realised it was music. He tilted his head to one side and strained to hear more clearly. There were voices too, dozens of them, echoing around the soaring arches and columns. The hooded figure led him into another passageway. This one was markedly different: it was much smaller for a start—only wide enough to accommodate four or five men side by side—and it had clearly seen recent life. The m
irrors that lined the walls were still clouded with ancient dust, but the carpet was indented with footprints. The heady scent of lilies filled the air and the baron sighed with pleasure as warmth began to seep through his furs. The music was now unmistakable and he paused to enjoy the sound of harps playing a sinuous, elusive melody. The voices were clearer too. The baron could not place the language, but the snatches of polite laughter brought a faint smile to his lips.
His hooded guide paused as it reached a final set of doors. It was obvious from the volume of the music that they had reached their destination. The giant placed a long, bandaged hand on one of the door handles and then hesitated, turning back to Schüler. After a few seconds of gasping and spluttering it spoke. “You may still leave,” it growled, straining to wrap its thick accent around the words.
The baron scowled at the delay and gestured to the door.
For a long time, the figure studied the baron from within the deep folds of its hood, then, finally, it nodded and shoved the door open.
The baron stepped back with a gasp. The room beyond was a kaleidoscope of light and movement. Crowds of dancing figures were spinning back and forth through banks of scented smoke. He shook his head in astonishment. The dancers were dressed in iridescent silks and sparkling brocades, and moved with such grace that they seemed little more than smoke themselves. “So beautiful,” he muttered, but he could not fully hide the tremor of fear in his voice. “What are they? Gods?”
[Heroes 04] - Sigvald Page 1