“No!” cried Sväla, her voice shrill with panic. “Don’t stop! Sigvald is within reach!”
It was useless. Her voice was lost beneath the din of battle as the Norscans turned their spears on the red horrors that were ploughing into them. As Sväla began to see the attacking host more clearly, her heart sank. The lurching, frenetic creatures were vaguely humanoid, but they were covered in thick, red scales and as they sprinted back and forth, they gored the Norscans with long, sweeping horns that hung down from their bestial heads.
Sväla realised that left unchecked, the hellish creatures would butcher her entire army. “Daemons!” she cried, grabbing her son’s shoulder. “They’re daemons! Turn the army around. We can’t advance with these things at our backs.”
He nodded in reply and let out another blast on his whalebone horn, signalling for the army to round on the attackers.
The Norscan army was so vast that whole swathes of the crusaders had not even realised they were under attack. Dozens of other musicians mimicked Svärd’s horn blast though and gradually the host began to swing around in the direction of the red figures. Within a few minutes, tens of thousands of stern-faced warriors were thundering through the slushy snow to reinforce the flank.
Sväla found herself caught up in a tsunami of spears and axes as her army turned on its heel and charged west. There was nothing she could do but join the others in hurtling towards the enemy. As she neared them, she saw the monsters in more detail: their snarling, bestial jaws were lined with razor-sharp teeth and they carried long, jet-black swords that crackled with dark sorcery as they hacked into her people. Even after all she had seen since they set sail from Norsca, Sväla’s mind recoiled from the sight of the hideous beasts but her resolve was firm. She waved the men on with her iron knife.
“Crush them!” she cried. “They’re in the hundreds, we’re a whole nation!”
Few were able to hear her words, but the truth of them was quickly apparent. Despite the ferociousness of the monsters’ attack, the sheer, unstoppable weight of bodies crashing into them soon made it impossible for them to swing their long swords, or even move. As the Norscans piled on top of their attackers, they jammed spears through scales and cleaved heads from shoulders with terror-fuelled desperation. As the monsters’ movements became more restricted, the Norscans’ confidence grew. They piled into them in ever increasing numbers, pinning the creatures to the ground with the weight of their bodies and dismembering them before they had chance to rise.
The daemons showed no sign of fear, even as they were torn apart, and the few who managed to break free made no attempt at retreat, they simply bellowed with rage, lowered their horns and charged back into the fray, flinging bodies left and right until they were forced back down onto their knees.
“We have them!” cried Svärd, wiping a splash of blood from his face as he turned back towards Sväla and the princess.
The princess laughed and pointed over his head. There was a black line moving towards them through the storm. “I think that was just to get your attention. Here comes the real attack.”
Svärd’s eyes widened as the shapes emerged from the glittering banks of snow. Tall, broad-shouldered knights clad in dark, brass-edged armour were striding towards them, carrying cruel, two-handed axes. Their helmets had been designed to resemble feral, snarling hounds, but it was not so much the rank and file that terrified Svärd, it was the figure at their head. Riding out in front, on what looked like a colossal, metal-clad bull, was their captain. He was even larger than the other knights and clearly the inspiration for their helmets. He had the head of a slavering, red-eyed dog.
For a brief second, Svärd felt the crimson, canine eyes boring into him. Then the knight placed a large brass skull over his head and levelled his axe at the Norscans, letting out a long, mournful howl.
The knights howled in reply and rushed to attack.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sigvald didn’t break his stride as he reached Mord Huk’s army. Still laughing, he tore through the crimson ranks, dealing out death as he ran.
The knights looked back in confusion as the ground tilted and heaved. They saw a flash of gold and a blissful grin, before collapsing in a shower of blood, clutching at holes that had suddenly appeared in their chests.
“Make way for a god,” cried Sigvald, vaulting over the tumbling knights. His heart was racing and his veins felt as though they were channelling fire. Within minutes, he would have the skull, a relic from the throne of Khorne that would channel unimaginable power through his mind. His whole being was consumed with a desire more potent than any he had yet known.
As the Geld-Prince carved a path through the rear of the army, storm clouds rolled and tumbled in his wake, blocking the pale moonlight and plunging the battlefield into darkness. The only light that remained came from Sigvald himself. As he raced through the serried ranks, his armour shone like a fallen star, flickering in an ocean of lumbering shadows.
Sigvald’s laughter rang out through the darkness as Mord Huk’s knights rounded on him, lifting their great, two-handed axes and bellowing with rage as they charged. As the knights smashed into him, the Geld-Prince was finally forced to slow. He hacked and lunged wildly with his rapier and came to a gasping halt on a mound of corpses. He leapt to the top of the bloody heap and raised his sword to the heavens, just as a shaft of moonlight broke through the clouds and poured down over him.
Picked out in the spotlight, the grinning prince could be seen for miles around and the knights nearest to him stumbled in confusion. None of them had ever witnessed such a dazzling vision of unholy power. The column of light resembled the gaze of a god, shining down benevolently on its most beloved child. A glittering mantle of snowflakes surrounded Sigvald as he surveyed his brutish enemies.
“Avert your gaze!” he cried, his voice ringing out across the battlefield and his eyes blazing with scorn. He turned his sword towards Mord Huk’s knights. “Do not presume to turn such repulsive faces in my direction.”
To their amazement, whole swathes of the army looked away in shame, humbled by the prince’s words. Others roared in defiance and launched themselves at him, but before they could reach the Geld-Prince, their brother-knights clubbed them to the ground, desperate to protect the glittering prince. Within minutes, all of the dog-helmed men near Sigvald had turned on each other, hacking fiercely at their own kin and forgetting about the vast Norscan horde bearing down on them.
As the crimson knights fought, Sigvald looked up at the rolling clouds and held out his hand in a summoning gesture. Silent forks of lightning splintered across the ink-black sky at his command. He shook his head in wonder, following the brittle needles of light as they knifed towards him. Then, as the snowstorm doubled in fury, Sigvald hurled himself headlong back into the fray. He crashed into the toiling figures like a comet, scattering armour, weapons, limbs and even rock; but rather than halting, the fighting only intensified. Sigvald emerged right in the heart of the schism, drenched in gore and rolling his eyes ecstatically. His animal frenzy was infectious and the knights around him began to swing their weapons indiscriminately, not caring whose flesh they severed. The whole scene quickly descended into a sadistic orgy of bloodletting, captured in brief bursts by the flickering light and accompanied by Sigvald’s joyous, ringing laughter.
“I’m a god,” he cried, his voice exultant and musical.
As the knights fought, some of them began to tear at their own armour, removing helmets and breastplates until they were naked, seeming to savour every wound that tore their exposed flesh. As their movements became more erratic and frenzied, some of them even began to change physically: grinning lustily as their flesh drained of colour and their hands became hard, serrated claws.
As the confusion spread, Sigvald moved on through the chaos with a column of wide-eyed converts trailing after him. “Where’s your lord?” he cried, grabbing a knight by his canine helmet. The warrior cowered and waved across the battlefield, poi
nting to where Mord Huk’s men were toppling beneath waves of howling Norscans. Sigvald nodded and threw him to the ground, racing on through the carnage.
Sigvald had barely taken more than a few steps before he forgot his purpose and dived into another scrum of bodies, lashing out with his rapier and whooping ecstatically as he fell on the struggling knights. He tore armour open with his bare hands and sank his teeth into straining necks, covering his face with hot, pumping blood. As he dived and hacked through the battle, even more of Mord Huk’s knights staggered to a halt and watched in awe, before following his example and turning on whoever was stood nearest to them.
“My lord!” cried a voice, slicing through sounds of breaking bones and grinding steel.
Sigvald rose from the battle in a fountain of blood, with a severed head in one hand and his rapier in the other. As he climbed to his feet, the gore evaporated from his armour and face, leaving him immaculate as he turned to see who had spoken.
A gaunt, bearded figure was riding towards him, his face smeared with blood.
“Schüler!” cried Sigvald, dropping the head and racing towards the baron.
As the ground rolled and lurched, Schüler’s horse panicked and hurled its rider from its back. The baron landed with a clatter and cried out in pain. He was still trying to climb to his feet when he found himself enveloped in a fierce embrace.
“Proud, brave friend!” said Sigvald clutching the baron’s shoulders and smiling at him with unalloyed delight. “How can I ever repay you?”
Schüler shook his head in mute confusion and frowned, blinded by the daemonic light pouring from the prince’s eyes.
Sigvald waved to the ocean of violence that surrounded them. “I’d forgotten how to live, baron,” he gasped. “How to really live! If you hadn’t told me about the brass skull, I would have rotted in that palace. Who knows how many centuries I would have wasted? Maybe none of this would have ever come to pass, if you hadn’t inspired me to action.”
As knights fought all around them, the prince pulled the baron close and clutched his skeletal head. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen, Schüler.” He closed his eyes for a second and moaned ecstatically. When he looked back at the baron there were tears in his eyes. “I’ve travelled beyond the curtains of light, baron. I’ve seen another world. I’ve been forged anew in the realm of the gods. And all because of you.”
Schüler shook his head and tried to hide his disappointment with a rictus grin. “And you survived.”
“More than survived! Look at me!” Sigvald waved a hand at the ground and it rippled away in a liquid surge, sending rows of knights to their knees. “I’m a god!”
Schüler gasped and reeled away from the prince. Then his eyes narrowed. “But what about the brass skull?”
“It’s mine,” giggled Sigvald. “Or as good as. What could stop me now?” He waved at the mayhem that surrounded them. “Mord Huk is here somewhere, looking for me.” His laughter grew hysterical. “He’s looking for me, baron! Do you see? And I’m a god!” The prince staggered back from Schüler, looking down at his immaculate gold armour and shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m a god,” he kept repeating, tracing his hands over the engravings on his cuirass.
Baron Schüler cursed as one of the towering knights loomed out of the shifting darkness, raising his axe to strike. “Sigvald!” he cried, barely parrying the blow with his sword and collapsing to his knees.
The prince looked up with a glazed expression. Then he saw the knight, about to swing his axe again, and leapt at him with a furious howl.
A fine spray of blood erupted from the knight’s visor as Sigvald flew towards him. Before the prince had even reached him, the knight’s armour collapsed inwards with a hollow clunk and he crumpled to the ground with a horrible whining whistle.
Sigvald placed a foot on his throat and forced his head into the bloody slush.
The ground fractured and split, allowing Sigvald to stamp the man’s head beneath the surface. Then it folded back into place over his neck, leaving the man to thrash his limbs, with his head embedded in the stone.
“Schüler,” said Sigvald, turning away and dropping to the baron’s side. “Are you hurt?”
Schüler stared at him, speechless.
Sigvald dragged him to his feet, fending off another attack as they staggered back towards the horse. “Follow me,” he cried, helping Schüler back into the saddle. “Everything is starting here, today!” Then he sprinted off into the fighting, shouldering knights aside like blades of grass as he raced towards the front line.
At the point where the two armies met, the sound of combat was deafening. Sigvald howled in delight, seeing that, despite the horrific nature of their foes, the Norscans were gradually forcing Mord Huk’s army back. As he neared the crush of desperate faces and whirling blades, he saw a pair of women hacking and punching through the fray. They were leading the Norscan charge and making a line straight for him. One of the women was dressed in nothing but a few ragged scraps of fur, but her sinewy limbs were covered in fierce-looking tattoos and her face was locked in a determined snarl. The woman at her side was clearly not a Norscan. She was clad from head to toe in baroque, purple armour and wielding a slender, glinting scimitar. She moved through the hulking warriors with such serpentine ease that she seemed to be dancing. Sigvald gasped and stumbled to a halt, recognising her immediately.
“Freydís,” he said, lowering his rapier and staring at her, utterly enraptured.
The fury of the first woman and the skill of the second made them unstoppable, and they easily sliced a path through the battle. The grim-faced Norscans surrounding them were dropping in their dozens, hacked apart by the dog-helmed knights, but their advance was relentless: wave after wave of them poured over Mord Huk’s men, wedging spears under their plate armour and dragging them down to die in the snow.
Sigvald stood motionless as the women approached, the battle forgotten as he studied the lethal beauty racing towards him.
“We have him!” cried the tattooed woman, levelling an iron knife at Sigvald as she clambered over the toppling knights. Her voice was hoarse with emotion as she rallied her men. “Sigvald is here!”
The Norscan army replied with a single, deafening voice. The sound of so many people howling at once was like nothing Sigvald had ever heard. He dragged his gaze from Freydís and surveyed the ravening horde. “Wonderful,” he muttered, still nodding in respect as they broke through a line of knights and sprinted towards him.
At the last minute, Sigvald dropped into a crouch, jamming his rapier through the belly of the first man to reach him; then, as more slammed into him, he rolled back across the snow under the weight of them, laughing wildly as he punched and flailed.
The Norscans’ weapons clattered uselessly against his gold armour and Sigvald rose to his feet with a grin, lifting his rapier to the swirling clouds with a man skewered on the blade.
“Freydís!” cried the tattooed woman as she reached the edge of the scrum. “What do we do?”
As the princess sauntered into view, the Norscans backed away, creating a circle around her and Sigvald.
Sigvald dropped the corpse and fell to his knees, clutching his chest as though he had been shot. “Freydís,” he groaned, shaking his head, “look at you. What a vision.” He seemed utterly dazed by her appearance and kept repeating her name, as though it were a prayer.
The princess stepped in front of him and stood there for a few seconds, glaring down at him.
At the edge of the clearing, Sväla edged forward, her knife held in readiness, her eyes wide with hope.
“Liar,” said Freydís and dealt Sigvald a ferocious backhanded blow to the face.
Sigvald sprawled on his back and looked up at her in amazement. “I don’t—”
Before the prince could finish, Freydís kicked him in the stomach and he rolled away, gagging. “You left me to die!” she screamed, pointing her scimitar at him and trembling with rage. “You left me
with that bloated, gluttonous…” her words trailed off as Sigvald rose to his feet and grinned at her.
Despite all the bloodshed, Sigvald’s armour was still unmarked and his skin shone with such an unnatural, lunar glow, that it seemed as though Freydís were talking to a sliver of moonlight.
“How could I have left you?” asked the prince, shaking his head in genuine confusion as he studied Freydís’ flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. He tilted his head back, exposing his neck. “Kill me, Freydís. What an honour: to die by such an exquisite hand.”
Freydís rushed at him with a snarl, but rather than slitting his throat, she kissed it passionately; lowering her sword and crushing her body against his.
Sigvald frowned in confusion, then grabbed her head and smothered it with kisses. The couple forgot the battle raging around them as they locked in a fierce embrace.
“Freydís!” cried Sväla, horrified. She dashed forwards and wrenched the princess from her husband’s grip.
Sigvald’s sword flashed.
Sväla reeled back, trying to stem the fountain of blood that erupted from her throat.
Svärd broke through the front row of Norscans and caught his mother as she fell, pressing his hand over the wound as he dragged her back into the crowd.
Sigvald turned to his wife with a raised eyebrow.
“A peasant woman,” replied Freydís with an embarrassed shrug. “I needed someone’s help to reach you.” She waved at the ranks of awed faces that surrounded them. “And, conveniently, she had this group of primitives with her.”
“Kill him!” cried Svärd, as he dragged his convulsing mother away. “This is our chance!”
The Norscans hesitated. They had never seen anything so resplendent as Sigvald and his princess. As they looked around at each other they saw an ungainly, slouching rabble. Months of hardship had left their faces so haggard and cadaverous that it seemed absurd to think that they could attack such majestic beings.
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