[Heroes 04] - Sigvald

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  The prince seemed blind to his chancellor’s ungainly movements and grabbed one of his elongated hands. “We have a guest, Narrerback,” he said. “A brave knight of the Empire. He’s travelled all this way to find us.”

  Oddrún nodded. “I’ve prepared a room.”

  “Of course you have, but I have things to show him. So, so many things.” The prince ushered Schüler through the doorway into a small, enclosed courtyard. Stars wheeled overhead and a column of snow shimmered in the moonlight. “Quickly,” said Sigvald, hurrying across the flagstones to one of the doors that led back into the palace.

  They passed through a gloomy antechamber and into a room that was swathed in darkness. It was obvious from the echoes of their footfalls that it was another vast chamber, but the baron could see nothing.

  “Oddrún,” came the prince’s voice out of the darkness. “Lights.”

  There was snuffling, gasping sound and then, after a few minutes, a torch erupted into flames overhead, lighting up the chest of the hooded giant. “This room is no longer used, prince.”

  “Of course it is!” Sigvald shook his head, snatched the torch from Oddrún’s hand and dashed away into the shadows. As he moved back and forth, light flared from rows of gas lamps that lined the walls, gradually revealing thousands of books. “My library!” cried Sigvald, grinning back at the baron. “It’s perfect. It’s complete. Nothing like it exists anywhere.” He lifted the torch in his hand and revealed countless gilded spines, stretching up towards the distant ceiling. “Even your Imperial scholars would weep to see such a collection, wouldn’t they?” He looked eagerly to the baron for confirmation, his grinning face elongated by the torchlight.

  The baron frowned in confusion. “Why are you showing me this, my lord? I’m not a scholar, I’m a soldier.”

  Sigvald laughed. “I’m going to show you everything, baron.”

  As the baron spun around to take in the enormity of the library, a wave of nausea washed over him and he stumbled back against the door frame. The combination of exhaustion, hunger and confusion collided in his fevered brain. He grasped his head in hands.

  “My prince,” grunted Oddrún, gesturing to the baron’s obvious distress. “The palace is vast and the baron is exhausted.”

  Sigvald’s face twisted into a pout. “Of course,” he said, with a note of irritation in his voice. “We can begin in the morning.” He ushered the baron towards Oddrún. “Take him to his room. Give him a sample of Prince Sigvald’s hospitality.”

  As the chancellor led the baron away, Sigvald looked around at the library. His look of annoyance vanished as he studied the books. “Perfect,” he muttered, running his fingers across some of the spines and tracing the shapes of the foiled letters. A small piece of foil came away in his fingers and he peered at it, spellbound by the glittering shard of gold. “Perfect,” he said again, holding it up into the light.

  “My lord?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Sigvald turned to see a frail, bespectacled old man. The combination of his bony limbs and large, hooked nose gave him a distinctly avian quality as he scuttled into the room. He followed the prince’s gaze to the books. “Were you after a particular volume, Geld-Prince?”

  Sigvald placed the piece of foil carefully on a bookshelf and strode over to the old man. “Doctor Schliemann,” he cried, clasping his hand. “Our guest has arrived and he’s a countryman of yours.”

  The doctor drew back in alarm.

  “Calm yourself,” laughed Sigvald. “He’s not here for you.” The prince led the old man back through the door and out into the snowstorm. As they crossed the courtyard, he cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled into the doctor’s ear. “He doesn’t realise it yet, but he wishes to join us.”

  The old man nodded. “Ah, I see. Of course.” He paused for a moment and turned to Sigvald, grimacing as the icy wind lashed against his face. “As long as you’re sure. Not everyone is so understanding as you, my lord.” He wiped the snow from his spectacles and peered myopically at the prince. “Few of my kinsmen approved of my methods.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Sigvald patting the doctor on the shoulder. “He’s not here to judge us. He’s here to become one of us.”

  They stepped back into the warmth of the throne room and Sigvald let out a sigh of pleasure. The rows of plumed dancers had formed a circle around a lone figure: a tall, frail woman, dressed in shimmering silver robes who was singing along with the music. Her body was horribly emaciated and she barely looked strong enough to stand, but her aria was filled with such heartbreak that every one of Sigvald’s subjects had stopped to listen.

  “How beautiful,” said Sigvald.

  Doctor Schliemann nodded his head quickly, looking even more bird-like. “Yes, it’s one of the elves we captured last year. In fact, I believe she’s the last.”

  “The last?”

  Schliemann shrugged. “I did everything I could to make them comfortable, but imprisonment is hard on such a proud race. Despite the best efforts of your surgeons, most of them simply wasted away. We forced some of them to eat, but they died anyway.”

  Sigvald climbed the steps towards his throne so that he could see the singer more clearly. “What noble creatures.” He frowned. “What song is this, though? I’ve never heard any of them sing it before.”

  “I believe it’s her death song. There are certain eleven melodies reserved for such occasions. They’re a strange people—an odd mixture of pride and humility. She senses death approaching, but rather than pitying herself, she sings of the tragedy of her race. The song’s title is The Sundered.”

  Sigvald shook his head. “Incredible. Heartbreaking.” He began to mouth the words of the song, savouring the delicate melody as it rolled around his mouth. It was a simple, three line phrase, repeated over and over. As he stared at the singer his eyes widened and the colour began to drain from his face. “It’s too much,” he gasped suddenly and rushed down the steps. With the doctor hurrying after him, he threw open a pair of doors and ran out onto a balcony. The snow was falling even faster now and as Sigvald leant on the railings he had to shield his eyes from the dazzling display. Towering columns of snow were spiralling across the ink-black sky, flashing and glinting in the moonlight and billowing out beneath the drifting foundations of the palace.

  “Too much,” repeated Sigvald looking out at the beautiful, brutal landscape. The sound of the music had followed them out and the combination of the melody and the tumbling snow filled him with passion.

  “Do you need anything?” asked the doctor, lifting a small vial from his pocket and stepping to Sigvald’s side.

  “No, old friend,” replied Sigvald with a high-pitched laugh. As he turned to the doctor, his mouth was trembling with emotion. He waved at the fury of the snowstorm. “Nothing. What more could I need? What more could anyone want? Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Sigvald noticed a trace of sadness in the doctor’s voice and peered intently into his eyes. “What about you though, old friend—are you happy?” He placed a hand on the old man’s back. “Have I given you everything you desire?”

  The doctor leant out over the railings and gazed at the distant mountains. “Of course—you’ve been unbelievably kind to me. No one else would have allowed me to pursue such experimental research. Few people truly understand the necessity of sacrifice. I take no pleasure in inflicting pain, as you know, but it’s essential if one is to fully comprehend the nature of the cosmos.”

  Sigvald nodded. “Absolutely. You’ve been utterly fearless.”

  Schliemann frowned and looked down at his bony, wrinkled hands. “My only hindrance now is my own flesh.” He shrugged. “The years have not been so kind to me, my prince.”

  Sigvald saw the truth of Schliemann’s words. Liver spots and wrinkles had marred the skin of his protégé. He looked Schliemann up and down and realised that his limbs were almost as frail as the elven singer’s. The prince
looked back out at the storm. Inside, the aria had reached a soaring crescendo. The supple elven words echoed out into the darkness, filled with longing and regret. The sight of the snow, the sound of the music and the undeniable fact of his friend’s mortality suddenly rushed through Sigvald like a drug. His head strained with a sadness so profound that it verged on euphoria. “Too much,” he breathed as his heart began to pound. Painful as it was, he realised he wanted to savour this moment of transient, appalling beauty. Passion flooded his limbs and he began to tremble with excitement. As the dizzying emotions washed over him, Sigvald thought of a way to give them even greater potency. His hand was still resting on the doctor’s back and with a quick shove, he sent the frail old man flying over the rails of the balcony.

  The doctor tumbled out into the storm and plummeted into the void.

  Sigvald leant out over the balcony to watch his descent.

  As the doctor hurtled towards the snowy wastes below, Sigvald’s face was gripped by a kind of mania and his mouth stretched into a horrible grin. The old man screamed as he fell beneath the floating palace. It seemed an infinity before his body finally smashed on the distant rocks below. Sigvald remained motionless for a few minutes—gripping the railings and staring down at the broken corpse. Then his smile turned into a grimace and he backed away from the edge with a groan, raising his hands to his face.

  “My lord?”

  Sigvald turned to see his chancellor, stooping through the doorway.

  The hooded giant looked at Sigvald’s anguished face and lurched to his side. “Prince?”

  Sigvald kept his hands over his face and nodded at the balcony.

  Oddrún rushed to the railings and looked out into the storm. At first he could see nothing and shook his head in confusion, then he looked down and gasped. “Who is… is that the doctor?”

  Sigvald rushed to his side and looked down at the distant corpse. He was still clutching his face and his eyes were wide with grief.

  Oddrún turned to face him. “Did he fall?”

  Sigvald shook his head.

  The chancellor slumped against the railings and groaned. “Doctor Schliemann? After all these years?”

  Sigvald flinched as though he had been slapped, then stepped up to the railings.

  As the last note of the elven song faded away, the giant and the prince looked down from the balcony, watching the snowflakes spiral endlessly into the abyss.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A flame was burning on the wind-blasted steppe. It was nearly dawn and as a line of tribesmen crossed the fields, the sky above them was slowly shifting from black to a deep indigo. There was something strangely heroic about the sight of a single fire beneath such a vast expanse of sky, and as the men formed a circle around the flickering light they were humbled into silence. The fire was housed in a brazier: a deep bronze bowl, hammered and scored to resemble the head of a giant wolf.

  As the flames guttered and snapped in the brutal Norscan weather, a woman was attempting to guard them. She was dressed as simply as the tribesmen who gathered around her. A few crudely sewn animal skins were all that preserved her modesty, apart from a confusing mass of runes: hundreds of them, tattooed over her pale skin in dark, blue ink. As the wind howled around the brazier, she attempted to block it with her wiry body—dancing back and forth, silhouetted against the fire as she tried to keep it alive. Her right hand clutched an iron knife and her left was slick with blood. Every time the flames began to fail, she drew the blade across her palm and hurled her blood against the brazier, along with an oath. “Völtar the Wolf,” she cried, as her blood sizzled against the hot metal, “will bring him home.” Her voice was hoarse and her limbs trembled after a whole night of vigilance, but there was a grim determination in her eyes as she repeated the phrase.

  “So this is all we needed to do,” said one of the tribesmen. He was the tallest of the group and clearly a figure of some importance—feathers and claws were wound into his long, red beard and he held an intricately carved staff in his right hand. A grey wolf’s pelt was draped over his head, so that its fangs hung down over his sneering face. “The Fallen are all but extinct, our hunting grounds have been stolen and our children are starving, but a bonfire will save us.”

  The crowd roared with laughter, but it was forced and self-conscious and they watched the woman closely for her response.

  “Tell me, Sväla,” continued the man in the wolf skin, “will your flames reach across the fields to consume our enemies, or will they leap from their flesh at your command?” He grinned at the crowd, reminding them all of how clearly the gods had favoured him: his human teeth had long ago fallen out, to be replaced by needles of black iron.

  Sväla looked up from the fire and glared at him. “Jokes, Ungaur the Blessed? Is that all you have left to offer?” She looked around at the crowd. “He didn’t seem so merry when Hauk asked him to join the raiding party.”

  “Your husband’s a fool,” said Ungaur, turning his black grin towards Sväla. “I warned him to wait for the new moon. The portents were clear. If he’s not prepared to listen to the Voice of the Wolf then he can’t expect my help.”

  Sväla laughed. Unlike the laughter of the others, hers was a clear, honest sound. “Your help, Ungaur?” She looked at the crowd with disbelief. “Has our shaman ever given us help with anything?”

  The Norscans fell quiet and turned to Ungaur. Such open criticism of their shaman was unheard of, even from the chieftain’s wife.

  Firelight glinted in Sväla’s eyes as she turned back to the brazier. “Other than butchering our finest warriors, of course. You’ve always been a great help there.”

  The shaman slammed his carved staff into the ground and his face flushed with rage. “What would you have us offer a god, Sväla? Goats? We’re already cursed!” He stepped closer to the flames and pointed his staff at the stars. “We must regain Völtar’s favour with human blood. The blood of heroes. It’s the only way!”

  Some of the crowd grunted their approval, but others seemed less sure and looked back at Sväla.

  “What use have your sacrifices ever been?” muttered Sväla, flinging another splash of blood against the brazier. “You kill us, the other tribes kill us…” She turned back to the shaman. “Either way we die.”

  “Of course we do! We’re cursed The Wolf has forsaken us. Sacrifice is the only way to regain his forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness for what?” Sväla raised her voice to the crowd. “Do any of you feel you need forgiveness? Why should we be labelled the Fallen? We honour the gods. We face our enemies without fear. We offer up our dead to the Wolf. What have we done to deserve this curse?”

  “Do not question the judgement of Völtar,” cried Ungaur, looking up at the night sky. “Your lack of faith will bring even greater suffering down on our heads.”

  “Greater than this?” Sväla waved at the gaunt faces of the tribesmen. “We’re dying, Ungaur, and none of your spells have done anything to help.” She looked out across the steppe, towards a distant line of mountains. “Your prayers and oaths have failed. We need something better.” She held out her arms to shield the fire. “We need victory.”

  Hauk loosed his axe and slipped silently through the long grass. He knew the end was only seconds away: victory or defeat, whichever awaited him. Shapes trailed after him through the darkness and he felt as though he had already entered the afterlife. His men looked pale and ghostlike as they followed him up to the summit of the hill. Their muscles gleamed in the predawn glow and as they raised a thicket of spears and axes over their heads, the pale light glinted along the rows of jagged blades. They reminded Hauk of vengeful spirits and he felt a fierce rush of pride. He mouthed a prayer to the gods. Any that would listen. Everything hinged on this moment and he no longer cared whose name fell from his lips. “We will be the Fallen no more,” he whispered.

  The warrior nearest to Hauk looked over and nodded. Valdür the Old had fought alongside his chieftain for three decades
. He carried the same flashes of silver in his plaited topknot and the same scars on his knotted muscles. He heard the urgency in Hauk’s voice and raised the shaft of his javelin to his lips, kissing the finger bones rattling around its tip.

  Even before they reached the summit, sounds of battle reached their ears. The staccato war cry of the Fallen punctured the night, accompanied by the dull crunch of axes biting into flesh.

  “Svärd,” whispered Valdür, grinning at his chieftain.

  Hauk nodded in reply and began to sprint up the hill.

  A few moments later, they burst from the grass into a moonlit clearing and stumbled to a halt. Hauk lowered his axe and shook his head. They should have been charging towards the backs of their enemy. Hauk’s son, Svärd, had volunteered to lead some of the men in a feint as Hauk led the true attack, but something was wrong. A circle of armoured, burly Drékar waited for them. The Norscans’ grinning faces were smeared with their own blood and as they rushed forwards to attack they howled like starving dogs.

  Hauk and his men barely had time to raise their weapons before they disappeared beneath an avalanche of flails and axes. Bones splintered and muscles tore as the two lines of men slammed into each other. War cries were replaced with curses, muttered oaths and garbled, liquid groans.

  “Where’s Svärd?” cried Valdür as he hammered his fist into a screaming face.

  Hauk roared with frustration and grasped the shoulder of the man he was facing. Rather than hewing his head from his shoulders, he slammed his foot into the man’s belly and, as he doubled over in pain, Hauk clambered onto his back to survey the battle. “Svärd,” he cried, scouring the heaving mass of bodies. The clearing was filled with movement as more of the Drékar rushed to attack, but there was no sign of his son. “I heard the wretched child,” gasped Hauk, swinging his axe down into the neck of the man who was supporting him. The tribesman collapsed and Hauk leapt clear, pounding the haft of his axe down into the face of another man as he landed. “Where is he?” he cried, peering through the forest of limbs and spears. “He signalled the attack!”