The shadow flinched. Something about the chieftain’s praise knifed into it. As it saw the delight in the man’s face, it felt the unbearable gnawing pain again and slipped away across the clouds.
The shadow reached another battleground and then another. A whole series of bloody victories was played out, each one culminating in a victory for the chieftain and his son. Each time, the boy received more credit for the tribe’s success. As his muscles grew thicker and his shoulders broader, the tribesmen howled his name out, studying the corpses at his feet with awe. They fell to their knees in front of him and pounded their fists on their gore-splattered chests.
The shadow watched with an awful sense of foreboding as the youth’s fame grew. At the end of each battle, more of the tribe’s fervour was reserved for the youth, and less was directed at the quickly ageing chieftain. The shadow watched from beneath a pile of broken shields and saw the older warrior’s expression change from pride to concern. As the grinning youth waved his grisly trophies at the baying men, a spark flared in his father’s eyes: a spark of hard, bitter fear.
The shadow’s inexplicable pain continued to grow as it hurried on through dozens more of the victory celebrations, watching with dread as the youth grew more and more boastful—crowing over his victories and mocking their foes. As his confidence grew, so did his blood lust. The boy’s battle frenzy continued even after the enemy were defeated, causing the other tribesmen to eye each other warily as their hero sank his teeth into the flesh of the fallen and grinned back at them with blood pouring down his broad chest.
Finally, the shadow reached a battle that was far from won. Tightly packed rows of tribesmen were still crushed together, howling curses and jabbing their spears. Trapped in the heart of the enemy ranks was the golden-haired youth. Hubris had led him far ahead of the others and left him surrounded by the enemy. The pile of corpses that lay sprawled around him was testament to his incredible skill, but the odds were insurmountable. The boy lunged and kicked with growing desperation as the enemy pressed closer and, for the first time, the shadow saw fear in the youth’s eyes.
Just as it looked as though the boy was about to vanish beneath a wall of enemy spears, another figure entered the fray: a second youth, with a dark, brooding face and long, rangy limbs.
The taller boy crashed through the wall of enemy spears and sliced his axe across the necks of their wielders, flooring three men with one powerful swipe.
At the sight of his rescuer, the blue-eyed warrior cried out in recognition and relief, rushing to his side with renewed vigour and taking advantage of the confusion to down another three men.
The two boys fought back-to-back with a ferocity that astounded their foes. Death was inevitable, but they seemed beyond caring. Their faces were locked in the same maniacal grins.
After almost half an hour of brutal fighting, the crowds of enemy tribesmen had still failed to bring either of the boys to their knees.
Finally, a hulking shape approached the press of bodies and held up a long, two-handed sword, bellowing at his men to lower their weapons. The Norscans cowered at the sight of him; muttering prayers under their breath and clearing a path so that he could saunter towards the two boys. He was clearly a great champion. At nearly seven feet tall, his huge frame was clad in a suit of intricately engraved white metal. The gleaming, ribbed armour had been hammered into a mass of jagged, serrated spikes and decorated with images of intertwined lilies. His face was hidden inside a strange, tall helmet that curved up like an ivory leaf from his broad shoulders. As his voice rang out, it was as metallic and inhuman as a tolling bell.
“Stand back,” he boomed, signalling for his men to lower their weapons.
As a wide circle formed around them, the two exhausted boys stared up at the white knight with a mixture of defiance and awe. An unholy rune was emblazoned across the centre of his cuirass, framed by the spirals of lily petals. It was a circle enclosed by a semi circle, with a line pointing out from its centre. The sigil glowed as though it had just emerged from a blacksmith’s furnace: vivid, molten and rippling with waves of emerald heat. As the knight stepped closer, the baleful light washed over the boys’ sweat-drenched faces, revealing the terror in their eyes.
The warrior studied them in silence for a few seconds, leaning on a lustrous, alabaster greatsword. He looked quite at ease, despite the carnage that surrounded them. “What are your names?” he asked eventually, with a note of humour in his voice.
“I’m Sigvald,” cried the blond-haired youth. He raised his chin defiantly as he spoke, but his voice was shrill with fear. “And this,”—he waved at his companion—“is Oddrún.”
The knight gave them a small bow in reply. “I’m honoured to meet you.” He waved at the mounds of corpses that surrounded them. “Such bravery does not go unnoticed. Your deeds have been watched from afar.”
The champion signalled for his men to head back into the main crush of battle and leave the boys behind. Then he removed his helmet to reveal a face so long and strange that it looked barely human. His smooth, hairless chin tapered to an elongated point and his small features were hidden in shadow beneath a tall expanse of forehead. The overall effect was that his head seemed to have been pinched at both ends and stretched almost beyond recognition. “I do not think that this is your day to die,” he rumbled. As he studied them, the knight tapped the pulsing icon on his breastplate. “I’m Einvarr. Look for my sign, masters Sigvald and Oddrún.” Then he turned on his heel and strode after the receding warriors.
As their enemies withdrew, the two boys found themselves alone with the corpses and finally collapsed to their knees. They looked at each other’s dazed, blood-splattered face and laughed in disbelief. Neither of them had expected to survive.
“You saved me,” said Sigvald, grasping his friend’s shoulder.
“We saved each other,” replied Oddrún.
After a few moments, Sigvald took a knife from his belt, ran the edge across his palm and held out his hand.
Oddrún narrowed his eyes, looking from the bloody wound to Sigvald’s face and considering what was being offered. Then he nodded and grabbed the knife. He drew a crimson line across his skin and grasped Sigvald’s hand in his own.
“I will never desert you,” cried Sigvald, tightening his grip until blood welled up between their fingers.
Oddrún didn’t reply for a second, as he watched the receding white figure. Then he turned back to his friend with an earnest frown. “Nor I you, Sigvald.”
The shadow washed over the faces of the two young Norscans, then shrank away, hiding itself in the crowds of warriors, filled with pain and confusion. As it rushed across the clouds, more images assailed it. Every billowing valley revealed another glimpse of Sigvald’s youth. Rather than battles though, he was now immersed in a world of dark rites and secret gatherings. Painful shards of memory needled the shadow as it followed his ruinous journey. In one scene, Sigvald’s father had his son by the throat and was waving furiously at a bunch of mutilated corpses. Each body had been beheaded and scarred with the same symbol as Einvarr’s armour. “You’re an abomination!” the chieftain shouted, before throwing the youth to the ground in disgust and storming away.
Later, the shadow watched a slightly older Sigvald climb to the mountain fastness of the knight in the white armour. Once there, along with the lanky youth, Oddrún, he swore fealty to Einvarr, who, in time, introduced them to his patron: a placid-faced, androgynous youth with luminous pale skin and two small, black horns sprouting from beneath its white hood. The shadow flickered nervously back and forth across a tiny, candlelit chapel as the daemon ensnared its young victims. The two boys presented themselves willingly and begged for aid against the wrath of Sigvald’s father, explaining that he had banished them from the tribe. The scene played itself out in horrible, vivid detail and the shadow remembered everything as though it had happened only days ago. The young Sigvald had a ferocious hunger in his eyes as the daemon promised him a life of ete
rnal power and ecstasy, in exchange for a small token of fealty: a crude, bronze torque that snaked around the bicep of his right arm. Sigvald agreed readily and handed over the metal band with a grin.
The shadow cried out in alarm, suddenly terrified for the fresh-faced youth. “Go home!” it cried, throwing its formless arms out and trying to seize the torque. “Don’t give yourself away!” But the shadow slipped, unnoticed through the darkness.
The young Sigvald carried on grinning as Belus Pül slipped the torque on its arm and triumphantly described the event to a pallid, spider-like shape, twitching in the gloom a few feet away.
Then the daemon turned to the second youth and nodded to a brooch on his fur cloak: a lump of iron, cast in the shape of a wolf’s head.
The lanky youth looked at Sigvald, who was nodding eagerly, and removed the brooch from his cloak. But then, as the candlelight revealed the huddled mass of limbs in the corner more clearly, he recoiled and snatched the trinket back, hiding it in his cloak.
“They’re monsters,” he cried, backing away to the exit and levelling a finger at the slender, robed figure. “I won’t give myself to such a thing. I won’t!”
The daemon reeled back against a stone altar, raising a hand to its mouth in shock and silently repeating the word “monster”.
The shadow looked around in dismay as the candles gutted and failed, plunging the chapel into darkness. A terrible screaming filled the room and stones began to clatter to the ground as the whole structure began to shake.
The shadow felt itself dissipating into the blackness as the boys scrambled past, crying to each other in fear and trying desperately to find a way out. In its last moments of sentience, it heard an unearthly voice directing a bitter, hate-filled curse at Oddrún. “Monster!” it cried, as the building collapsed.
With a flash of silent lightning, the shadow rippled back into view. The chapel had vanished, along with the daemon and the two young men. All that remained was the tumbling, mountainous clouds, pulsing with unholy light as the world rushed by overhead. The shadow cursed and whined as the remaining pieces of its life fell into place. The daemon had been true to its word. Sigvald had been given countless lifetimes in which to satisfy his every craven desire. But within just a few short years, he had begun to see the cruel irony of the pact. Nothing satisfied him. As his last traces of humanity slipped away, he realised that no pleasure could satiate his hunger. He roamed the Wastes, seeking the perfect, most extreme form of everything: wine, music, pain, sex, grief, remorse, inebriation, victory; but once he attained them, they crumbled like ash in his hands. Something better was always taunting him from just beyond the horizon. The daemon’s malice had driven him ever onwards, to stranger, darker places, but always to no avail. “Narrerback,” he whispered, looking down at his hand and imagining a faded scar. “What have I done to us?”
Sigvald’s shadow lay back across the clouds and wept, allowing its insubstantial limbs to slowly extend towards the horizon. Then, after a few minutes, it felt a strange sensation. Its hazy outline began to move of its own accord, shrinking towards a small figure that had appeared in the distance.
The shadow groaned, unwilling to endure another harrowing vision. Then it raised its head and studied the glimmer of gold it was racing towards. It was a knight, striding across the clouds, clad in flawless gilt armour. The knight was grinning in recognition.
“It’s me,” gasped the shadow, as it saw that its own shape was carved from the blazing sunlight, pouring around the smiling knight.
As the knight approached, the shadow shortened until its face was just a few feet away from its owner.
“You look so sad,” said the knight, coming to halt with a concerned expression on his face. “Has life really been such a disappointment?”
“Are you me?” asked the shadow, studying the man’s pale, handsome features.
The knight threw back his mane of blond hair and laughed. “I’m whatever you most want to see, Sigvald.”
The shadow felt a rush of fear and struggled to free itself. It was no use, its form was locked to the prince’s feet, however fiercely it lurched and rolled. “Let me go!” it cried.
The knight frowned. “Is that what you desire?” He looked up at the shapes fluxing overhead. Oceans became deserts and spiralled into vast, billowing faces before dissolving into other, unknowable forms. “Would you abandon the world, then, Sigvald? Could you really abjure all this fathomless beauty?”
The shadow grew still, wondering if the question might be more than hypothetical. “My lord,” it moaned, “can you offer me such a thing? I wish it more than anything. I’ve seen my life from beginning to end. Every minute has been fruitless.”
The knight raised his eyebrows. “Fruitless?” He drew a gleaming rapier and held it up into the sunlight, so that a line of silver glimmered along the blade. “Yes, Sigvald, I can offer you such a thing. If it’s what you truly desire, I can grant you that boon. You’ve been a loyal servant and I’m not a heartless brute.” He stooped down until his face was a few inches away from the shadow’s. “But is that truly what you want?”
The shadow felt a flash of hope at the knight’s words and nodded eagerly. As the knight moved closer, though, the shadow was surprised by its own reply. “Perfect,” it muttered. This close up, the knight’s flawless beauty was breathtaking. “I’m so perfect,” said the shadow, unable to imagine anything more wonderful than the smiling face hanging over it—the smiling face that it knew was its own.
The prince placed the edge of his rapier where the shadow met his feet. “Oblivion can be yours, Sigvald. Sweet, eternal nothingness.”
“Wait,” gasped the shadow, tracing its fingers over the prince’s face. “Will I look… Well… Will I be the same?”
The prince continued smiling as he shook his head.
Sigvald’s shadow felt a pain greater than anything it had endured so far. “I’ll never see my face again?”
“You will dissolve on the wind, Sigvald, like the remains of a funeral pyre.”
“Wait,” repeated the shadow huddling closer to the prince’s feet. “I’m not sure.”
The prince shook his head in confusion. “I thought you were weary of your life?”
“I was confused,” gasped the shadow, pawing at its owner. “I saw my family. I thought there could be a way back. I thought death might be an escape from this burden.” The shadow shook its head fiercely. “But I don’t want to escape from myself, even if it’s the only way.”
“How can you talk of burdens?” asked the prince, replacing his smile with a confused frown. “Countless, wretched millions toil in obscurity and die, daily, unknown; nothing but fleas on the carcass of history, while you, Sigvald, have been allotted a place in the greatest of all games. You have a chance to burn a light through all that miserable dross. Can’t you see? All the universe’s infinite potential is contained within your tiny, blessed frame.”
As the prince spoke, his shadow felt its mind flooding with images. They were the same scenes of lustful pursuit it had recalled earlier, but now, rather than frustrating, they seemed heroic. Every base act was a gesture of defiance: an insolent fist raised against the morbid tedium of the universe, a rallying cry to every imaginative soul who would listen. The shadow began to tremble with emotion. “Yes,” it whispered, awestruck by its own importance. “I do see. I’m an example. An emblem of hope.”
The smile returned to the prince’s face. “Then will you try again, Sigvald? Will you pit yourself against a mindless cosmos? Will you rejoin the Great Game?”
The shadow reared up with an exultant cry. “Yes! And I will never again—”
Before the shadow could finish its reply, the prince thrust his rapier into the shadow’s heart, filling it with incredible, electrifying pain.
Sigvald stepped from the Lucid Gate and looked down the long black road. He paid no attention to the hawthorn bushes or the discarded casket as he stared into the whirling storm. His armour flashed
and glittered in the moonlight and his long, blond hair trailed around his face like a halo. He closed his eyes and held up his hands, delighted by the sensation of snowflakes settling on his upturned palms. Then he looked down at his perfect, unmarked armour with a sigh of pleasure. All trace of damage had vanished. The etched, golden plates gleamed as brightly as the day they were forged; brighter, even. Then he held up his mirrored, circular shield and gazed lovingly at his reflection. His skin was flawless once more.
As he marched south, he grasped the hilt of a rapier, buried deep in the centre of his ornate chest armour. He wrenched the blade from his body with a sigh of pleasure and a scrape of grinding metal. Blinding light leaked briefly from the wound, before the breastplate smoothed itself seamlessly over the hole. Then Sigvald held the weapon up to the starless sky and grinned, admiring the intricate, lacy metalwork.
His grin broadened as he looked down and saw that he was walking several inches above the ground.
As Sigvald broke into a run, the ground rippled away from him, heaving and rolling like waves before the prow of a great ship.
His grin became a long, joyous laugh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Baron Schüler ran a scarred hand over his face, wiping some of the frozen blood from his beard and massaging his ridged brow. His skeletal body looked as though it was only kept upright by his armour but, as he led the remnants of Sigvald’s army back towards the Gilded Palace, there was a wolfish hunger in his eyes. He turned to a small figure sitting on the horse next to him. “What is that?” he asked, nodding at a broad, dark expanse that was spreading across the horizon. The palace had been in sight for hours, but the dark stain beneath it had only just appeared.
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