Sigvald (Champions of Chaos Book 1) by Darius Hinks

Author:Darius Hinks [Hinks, Darius]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

An army of frozen Sigvalds punctuated the darkness, drenching the landscape with pale blue light. Each beaming prince was nearly twenty feet tall and built of slick, pulsing ice, and each of them was a caricature of the real prince, with exaggerated features and absurdly powerful muscles. As they lifted their arms in welcome, hundreds of weary figures shuffled through the snow towards them, throwing down their weapons and collapsing gratefully at their feet.

Baron Schüler’s mind was numb as he stumbled towards the ice sculptures. Exhaustion and terror had left his thoughts as featureless as the snow. The prince had led them north for two days, deep into the frozen wastes, and the small reserves of strength Schüler had built up in the Gilded Palace were gone. If he had been asked his own name at that moment he would have struggled to recall it. As he reached one of the blazing effigies he let out a groan of pleasure. The ice prince’s limbs were radiating unnatural warmth, melting the snow at its feet into a dark, bubbling pool. The baron dropped, pilgrim-like, to his knees, shedding ice from his ragged beard and his battered armour. He was vaguely aware that some of his deformed kinsmen were settling on the ground next to him, but he focussed all his attention on the glittering statue, afraid to acknowledge the grunting, slithering shapes that were pouring out of the night and waiting expectantly for his command. As he peered into the ice he caught a glimpse of his reflection. The make-up applied by Sigvald’s servants had run down his cheeks, blurring his features and giving the odd impression that his face was melting. Schüler nodded his head. The transformation was apt. He could no longer recognise his own thoughts, so it seemed right that he could no longer recognise his own face.

‘Beautiful aren’t they?’ asked Víga-Barói, waving at the ice sculptures as he emerged from the shadows. His scarred face was drenched in gore and his tight ponytail was slick with blood, but his sneer seemed almost playful. There was a spark of humour in his eyes as he dropped down next to the baron and waved over the heads of the assembled crowd. ‘It’s so like our prince to create such a picturesque source of warmth.’ Several feet away, another frozen Sigvald was emerging from the snow, surrounded by gouts of steam and dwarfing the two figures at its feet. As the tiny, hooded sorcerer, Énka, summoned the thing into being, the real prince danced back and forth through the snow, gesticulating wildly and shouting instructions.

The baron looked blankly at Víga-Barói. He had not spoken to anyone for hours, and he was not sure if he could even remember how to. He turned away and finally allowed himself to look at some of the other figures moving towards the pale blue lights. He recognised the hunched, awkward shape of Oddrún, sitting alone, several feet away. ‘Who is he?’ he asked, nodding towards the chancellor.

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