So remember- Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows

Artober Day 17: Disease

Hospitaller Nurse: “Here’s your daily helping of Grandma Saltzpyre’s Nurgle-Slaying Soup, you disgusting Norscan! ❤️"

Recently read ‘SIGVALD’ by Darius Hinks as part of the ‘WARHAMMER CHRONICLES: CHAMPIONS OF CHAOS’ omnibus.

SPOILERS BELOW!

The title character is the devilishly good looking and vain Sigvald, the Geld-Prince. Once just a mere man, he’s now blessed with long age by one of the Chaos gods Slaanesh, in exchange for devoting his life to hedonism and depravity. Living in a vast and luxurious (albeit in decline) Gilded Palace filled with cobwebbed portraits of himself, surrounded by mutated party-goers and daemonette entertainers.

All this is interrupted by a baron from the Empire. Baron Schuler wants sanctuary for him and his tired and half-dead men, escaping from another champion of Chaos, this one following Khorne. Said champion has a Brass Skull helmet which the bored Sigvald starts to fixate on.

Pretty impressive given how Sigvald might be in the middle of a sentence, or even battle when he forgets what he’s saying or doing!

Launching an attack on the champion’s place of residence costs Sigvald dearly. He’s forced to retreat and seek help from the Slaanesh daemon Belus Pül, who once gave the man his long life. Sigvald goes to perform deeds to prove he’s still worthy of the daemon time and eventually finds himself up north, in the Chaos Wastes where time and space warp, as does Sigvald’s place in the world.

In the north, the Norscan tribe The Forsaken also connect with Sigvald’s story. Sväla the Witch uses her premonitions to get charge of her tribe and unite others for her cause after her husband has died; to journey across the Sea of Chaos to find Sigvald and kill him. Supposedly to end a curse The Forsaken have been suffering from for hundreds of years at this point.

Sväla’s quest leads her far from home and eventually gets most of her people killed. Sigvald himself comes close to killing Sväla with a flick of his rapier after she’s briefly joined forces with his captive wife. A wife that baron Schuler wants for himself and wants Sigvald to get killed in his pointless crusade to get the Brass Skull.

At this point Sigvald has returned from the Chaos Wastes as a demigod among men. Slaying Mord Huk, the champion of Khorne and getting the Brass Skull while his Gilded Palace burns, Sigvald realizes it was all for naught. Curiously, once Sigvald learns that Schuler has betrayed him and run off with his wife, the Geld-Prince plans to follow in pursuit, taking his armies to Altdorf, the greatest Empire city there is!

What a great cliffhanger!

It’s always a great sign when a story ends and you wish there was more of it. While the motivation and path for a lot of the characters is clear, the ending overall is left open. The deal between Sväla and Belus Pül for example; the witch wants to atone for the pain and suffering she’s caused for her people but still want to trick the daemon, not wanting to give him her soul. It’s kinda hinted at that the daemon knows this and we aren’t shown how the deal goes down.

The daemon requires a personal item from the one wanting to make a deal. At first I was dreading Sväla might give Belus Pül her or his dead husband’s ring. While the Old World is a violent and dark one, I’m glad it’s not entirely nihilistic. Using a previously established magic item that had held captive a great beast is good use of the story’s proverbial Chekhov’s gun.

As for Sigvald himself; he’s vain, bratty, callous and cruel. The way he prevents an old “friend” from dying and instead stores his living head in a casket is reprehensible. I’d say Sigvald gets what he deserves, but in the context of the story, his crimes actually elevate him in the eyes of Chaos. Something that wouldn’t happen if he was striving to be a good Sigmarite.

Despite all of this, I wanted to see Sigvald succeed. As far as defeating the champion of Khorne was concerned. Mord Huk was marching on Sigvald’s lands unannounced and he had attacked Schuler. There was no redeeming qualities to him unlike Sigvald who at times could be a generous host, if only to stave off his own boredom.

Overall, I highly recommend the book. It took me a while to finnish it initially. The beginning drags in my opinion and there isn’t enough action to quite hook you. Once Sigvald leaves the Gilded Palace and Sväla leaves to confront him is where the story comes alive. You’re really invested in the characters and you feel anything could happen. Especially in a Warhammer story where the good guys don’t always win.

(I actually wrote and then lost Part 9 somewhere. Don’t look at me like that ¬_¬, stuff actually happened which tied off that last part. Yay me for not saving my fucking work. Ugh. Anyway, now that Larp is picking back up, Bjarke is on his way to the warhost. The first half of this was written when I thought I could make event 3, that didn’t happen so the latter half picks up the trek to the warhost for Renewal. That’s event 4 and the biggest of the year in about a month. Oooh that’s gonna be good. Just so you know the current IC plot; one of the Norns has been “stolen” by a fae. That’s as much as you need to know right now. Anyway, writing!)

    Too far and too long. It was far enough, twice over, to reach somewhere remote enough that memories couldn't reach, they'd catch on the branches and snag on the thorns falling to saturate the ground in visions of blood and glory. Now the path was taken once more in return to the warhost, forgotten memories leeched into his mind in heavy reconcile. Of these bittersweet reflections his mind's eye drank deep, to remind Bjarke how he was still able to look forward to Valhalla; not just through sword and skill but through luck and pain. His armour had been repaired so much, it was no longer the same steel. Through broken swords, shattered limbs and where strong warhammers have struck, he had managed to get up and be able to hold a weapon again and again.    Over a score of nights lay ahead before the air was thick with smoke and mead, when the business of war would be met with the currency of blades and chain. Amber filled the sky and thread through the trees, a promise of mead fire warmed; the cork tossed to the afterthoughts. A good mead would wash away the taste of blood after a fight, that dry copper taste which couldn't leave the teeth. Pushing away his hair he looked to the skies to see the lights awaken to the night, one in particular that never moved, the brightest. He thought when he fell, it would be at night so he'd see that star as the last thing.

   Though a gentle death wouldn't feel right, to which he scoffed.

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    A man carves his own path but a new one must be made on the return, for the way behind lays closed. A way through settlements of faceless drones and simple folk who looked to the sun to govern their little lives. Nights cycled on through terrains, sometimes clear enough that a good ear could hear for miles. A journey like the countless taken before. Though the norns where not at capacity, fate was already woven; sending something the shieldless norscan didn't expect. A surprise for the warhost and a precious gift of despair for those otherwise.      A fleshless face and roped hair, thickened hide with teeth and charms reeking of reckless endevour for peril. Where 2 swords were carried now came 4, where one fighter strode, now came more. Had the local night's tonic invited visions, sins of war given form?..He cursed for a good pitch of mead. Maybe the last cranial strike rendered a departure of faculties. Delirium was possible for visions of a feral beast stalking Bjarke, who wavered none and smirked;      "I wear nowt but leather n' iron." Silence, not even the sound of footsteps save for a rustling from his peripheral. Whistles of the wind swept and passed mockingly. "You'll ave t'bite 'ard to get through this chain" he huffed out again, leaving the silence to the sound of chain skipping off plate.