Valkia the Bloody

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘No,’ agreed Kata. ‘You would climb over the tree, or find a path around it, or as a last resort, you would cut it out of your way. Your tone speaks of giving up, Merroc, and it does not become you. And others are starting to notice it.’

  The chieftain stared at the young woman he had taken to wife and once again, he marvelled at her clarity of thought. He shook his head and smiled. ‘Between you and my wretched daughter, you are determined to change the way I view the world, aren’t you?’

  ‘I speak as I find,’ Kata replied simply. ‘Sometimes I open my mouth without thinking about the words that come out. Valkia, on the other hand...’ Kata shook her head. ‘She does nothing without contemplating the far-reaching consequences of her words. Her every action is calculated.’

  ‘She is cunning, aye. A quality which will serve her well.’ It was rare these days to hear Merroc speak of his headstrong daughter with anything but trepidation. Kata remembered a time not so very long ago when he had doted on Valkia. How things changed... but to hear Merroc speak with such pride warmed her heart.

  ‘Cunning, yes. And clever, too. She learns fast. I have watched her under Radek’s tutelage and she has put him flat on his back on more than one occasion.’ Kata smiled at the memory of it. When her step-daughter had started training with the Warspeaker, she had learned many humiliating lessons at Radek’s hands, most of which ended up with her lying in the mud, pitched face-first into a river and covered with bruises. But she had never once given up as her father had confidently predicted she would. She had persevered. She had more to prove than most and she did not let herself down.

  Kata was wise beyond her years and she had also watched the unmistakable growing attraction between Valkia and the disfigured Radek with a certain fondness. Radek was not the kind of man who would ever force his attentions on an unwilling Valkia and it was strange to see the normally foul-mouthed girl occasionally seem lost for words when talking about the Warspeaker.

  She did not claim to be gifted with the ability to understand signs and omens like the Godspeaker, but Kata was a woman who watched people. She could see the attraction between them and there was also a spark there that threatened something darker. She could not categorise it or even start to understand it, but she felt fear for not just her stepdaughter, but for all the Schwarzvolf.

  Edan had fallen asleep in her arms and she cradled him protectively for a few moments before laying him down on the pile of furs that served as his bed. She kissed the top of his pink little ear and turned her attentions to her two sleeping daughters. Merroc had withdrawn once again into brooding, presumably on his poor luck.

  Kata sighed and settled down to her work, stitching together boiled leather pieces to make new armour for her husband. Perhaps one day soon he might dispense with the need to dwell on all that he did not have and cherish what he did have.

  Spring bloomed into full summer and an unusual spate of sunny days nourished the Schwarzvolf as they maintained their summer home in the Vale. There were a few more problematic births, but several healthy children were born to the tribe and there was much cause for celebration.

  Valkia continued her training under Radek’s tutelage and her proficiency with the spear became unsurpassed, even by some of the older and more experienced warriors. Neither of them cared to act on the undeniable attraction they felt. Valkia was too careful not to sully the loyalty she had earned from the Warspeaker and Radek took her stand-offishness as a rejection. It worked heavily in her favour of course; every smile she threw him and every time she took his hand to get up off the floor – or more increasingly, to help him from the floor – he felt that old thrill all over again.

  ‘Why do you insist on toying with him?’

  Valkia had taken the conscious decision to spend a night at her father’s hearth. She had missed quiet conversation with her stepmother since Edan’s birth and whilst she thought highly of Kata, she bore little love for the happy infant boy who she nursed.

  The young woman had simply shrugged and drawn her legs into her chest. It was a familiar gesture, one that gave away the fact that she would not care to be drawn into conversation on the matter. Kata gave it one last try.

  ‘Radek is a fine man, Valkia. You could do far worse for yourself.’

  Kata was struck into silence by the look of venom that Valkia shot at her. She physically cringed backwards. There was such anger there that Kata felt Valkia’s irritation as a tangible thing. After a moment or two, the look subsided.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, with great ambivalence in her voice. ‘But if I could do far worse for myself, by that very same argument, Kata...’ A smile snaked her lips upwards and it was not a pleasant expression. ‘By that very same argument, I could also do far better for myself.’

  A silence, uncomfortable for the first time that Kata could recall, fell upon the two women. After a while, Valkia spoke again. She held up her long, dark hair and tugged at it. ‘I have a fancy to wear my hair short, Kata. Would you cut it for me?’

  Kata was shocked by this. For all her tendency to masculine behaviour, Valkia’s hair had always been a rare vanity. But she did as the girl asked, partly out of a sense of awkwardness at the earlier moment that had passed between them. She took up a knife and hacked at the thick, dark curls at the length Valkia indicated. When she had finished, the hair dropped to the ground in a pile and Kata knew, somehow, that this was Valkia’s final step to womanhood.

  She made an effort to neaten the resulting dark cap of hair and Valkia nodded determinedly, obviously happy with what had happened. It was a solemn moment, sad even, and after her stepdaughter was long gone, leaving the yurt to spend the night in games and carousing with her warrior friends, Kata looked at the hair on the ground, sorrow lining her face.

  She had always been able to drink any of the young men under the table, but this night, Valkia was unable to hold her spirits. She felt drunk and when she was drunk, she felt angrier than usual. It left her feeling weak and vulnerable and she stalked away from the gathering early.

  Unsurprisingly, Radek followed her. The Warspeaker was not drunk; he never engaged in such activities unless he was specifically ordered to stand down his vigilance over the camp.

  ‘What do you want, Radek?’ Valkia was tired and more than a little inebriated and she did not have the patience to play the Warspeaker’s games tonight.

  ‘I wanted to ensure you returned safely, Valkia. That is all.’

  ‘Do you not think I can take care of myself?’ Alcohol made her belligerent – more so than usual – and her tone was aggressive. Radek chuckled fondly, which served only to irritate her even more.

  ‘I am more than aware of your capabilities. Nonetheless, your safety is, and always has been, part of my responsibility as your father’s elected Warspeaker. So whether you like it or not, I will see you back to the chieftain’s hearth.’

  ‘I can make my own way. I absolve you of your duty.’ She ran her hand over her newly-shorn hair. It still felt strange to her. Radek considered his options for a moment or two and then nodded his assent. She felt strangely grateful to him for giving her the space she needed.

  Radek raised his head to the night sky and inhaled deeply. ‘There are things being borne towards us on the four winds, Valkia.’ He moved closer to her and she automatically backed off. ‘The Godspeaker can read the passage of time like he reads the weather. Something is coming.’

  She scowled at him. She liked Radek, was even prepared to acknowledge a fondness for him, but there were limits. She stood firmly, her feet planted on the ground. ‘My fist will be coming if you take another step closer to me, Radek. What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Godspeaker came to me earlier today. He has read the portents and wanted me to be ready.’ Valkia felt a cold chill run down her spine. Despite the warmth of the night, she shivered. ‘You should be ready too.’

  ‘Ready? For what?’

  ‘Change, Valkia.’ His voice had dropped to a whisper and he hel
d her gaze for slightly longer than she found comfortable. He inhaled deeply. ‘The gaze of the Trickster turns towards us.’

  Having delivered these curious words, Radek bowed deeply to Valkia and melted back into the night. She stood and watched him go, made suddenly sober.

  THREE

  The Black Stag

  The golden summer of that year would long live in the tribe’s legends. Particularly warm, which some murmured was unnatural, it nonetheless brought an abundance of food and richness to the normally hard lives of the Schwarzvolf. Nobody was surprised when Merroc made the decision to winter in the Vale.

  Nobody was surprised for a number of reasons. It was foolish to move out of the Vale when everything they needed was right there. The migration of the game to the north didn’t matter when there were provisions enough for months where they were. For the first time in living memory, the Schwarzvolf broke with the traditions of their people and the cost was more than anybody could ever have anticipated.

  Valkia was fully supportive of Merroc’s decision, an attitude which earned her a loss of respect amongst some of her peers. She poured scorn on their rebukes however. Why should she care about breaking with tradition? Her father was right. There was no point in risking the dangers of exposure and travelling the treacherous ice-fields when there was no need.

  Merroc had other reasons for staying where he was, but these did not become apparent to his daughter for a while. She had spent less and less time at her father’s hearth, increasingly sleeping virtually where she fell, or taking part in night patrols and sleeping during the day. The months that passed added more muscle to her slender frame until she was whipcord lean. She maintained her short hair and from the back was frequently mistaken for one of the young male warriors. Her coldly beautiful face was at incongruous odds with the leather armour and furs that she wore.

  She and her father were becoming increasingly estranged from one another. He remained unhappy that despite her eighteen years, she was still without a child or a husband or even – so the whispers went – a lover. In return, she despised his lectures on propriety. Whenever they were in the same vicinity for more than an hour or two, they would degenerate into sniping and name-calling. Kata did her best to buffer the animosity between father and daughter, but to no avail.

  The demands of three small children, with yet another growing in her belly, meant that Valkia’s stepmother was snappish and short-tempered and when the winter set in properly, things only got worse.

  Much worse.

  ‘You look tired.’ Kata made the observation in a soft voice, moving to the pile of furs on which she slept with her husband. She reached out a hand to stroke his damp hair back from his face and he batted it away.

  ‘Away with you, woman. I am fine.’

  From the way he had lain awake most of the night, tossing and turning and sweating profusely, Merroc was anything but fine. For days he had been pale and listless and the weight had started to drop from him. A once strong and heavily muscled frame was becoming little more than a bone rack on which his waxy skin hung uncomfortably. The weight loss was startling and Kata knew that this was something more than just the plague.

  ‘Let me fetch the healer for you.’

  ‘Let me sleep. It will pass.’ He coughed and raised a hand to his mouth to wipe away a trickle of blood. ‘It will pass,’ he repeated with a confidence that Kata did not sense he truly felt.

  Merroc, proud chieftain of the Schwarzvolf people had courted the attention of the Fly Lord. He was dying.

  Despite his illness, Merroc knew that he could not afford to display weakness in front of his people, particularly not when they were already unsettled due to his decision to remain in the Vale. He had to practically drag himself from his bed each morning to sit with the rest of the Circle and over the days that followed, every last one of them saw their chieftain’s steady deterioration.

  Stubborn as he had been throughout his entire life, he did not let up and pushed himself far harder than was sensible given his obvious illness. But there was nobody who dared suggest he might be unwell, save Valkia. The chieftain and his daughter finally came to blows on a chill morning when the days had grown shorter and it seemed as though light would never return to the sky. As was always the way with the young woman, there was nothing subtle in her attack.

  ‘You are weak.’

  The statement was blunt and came without warning. They were in the heart of the woods, hunting the day’s game. They had been let alone by enemy tribes for months and the daily hunt was about the only real chance to exercise their sword and spear arms. Merroc had joined the hunt with great energy and boundless enthusiasm. He had woken that morning feeling surprisingly well. A hearty breakfast had given him more strength and he had decided that he would take to the hunt for the first time in a long while.

  Kata had been somewhere between delighted to see a spark of the man she had married in this wasted stranger who shared her bed, and anxious at his ability to make it through the day without somehow shaming himself. She had watched the hunting party move out from the village with trepidation in her eyes. She caught the unmistakable sneer on Valkia’s face and withdrew into the yurt, fear of the unknown projecting images of horror into her mind.

  ‘You are weak.’ Valkia repeated the words. She walked through the woods with her spine held straight and her head carried high. From time to time she cast a sidelong glance at Merroc, despising the creature he was becoming. She had been growing increasingly angry with the gossip and rumour that spread throughout the whole camp.

  If she had ever loved her father, she could not remember it. Everything about him now made her so angry. He appeared to have shrunk. Once such a mountain of a man, he was thin and spare, grey streaking his mane of hair and his unkempt beard. The smell of illness hung around him and that made her angrier still. A warrior of the Schwarzvolf should not fall to illness. They should fall in battle, at the hands of an enemy. They should fall when they were defending their people, not lying in a bed and unable to move.

  ‘I have not been well, but I am recovering,’ he responded, his tone guarded and his eyes unconsciously straying to the dagger at his daughter’s waist. ‘Age brings with it its own new set of battles, Valkia. Be grateful that I am living still and that you are not embroiled in a battle for the leadership you so desire.’

  She made no reply, but snorted softly. There was the sound of a cracking twig, soft and barely audible somewhere far to her right and she ducked down, her soft leather boots making little more than a rustle on the leaves. Merroc followed her lead. He could not help but be deeply impressed with his daughter. He had neglected her for so long and she had blossomed in his absence. She was strong and lithe, her face so like her long-dead mother’s. She was confident and capable.

  She was everything he would have wanted in a son. But she had been a daughter. A thousand regrets came to plague at him.

  ‘See! There!’ Valkia hissed and grabbed at her father’s arm, her long fingernails almost piercing the flesh there. Her breath ghosted in front of her and Merroc peered through the light mist at the direction in which she was pointing. His breath caught in his throat.

  ‘The black stag...’

  The Schwarzvolf, whose name literally translated as ‘The Black Wolf’ carried many legends about black-skinned or furred animals. They were perceived to be good omens; signs of strength and power. They were creatures to be admired and revered. This particular specimen was a magnificent sample of his species. His hindquarters were strong and well formed; the number of branches on his antlers suggesting he was in his prime. His noble head was dipped as he cropped at what little grass he could through the rime of frost. Come the end of the winter, he would lose those antlers in preparation for new growth and another year of survival would be marked.

  Although the stag seemed oblivious to the presence of father and daughter, he was not. His ears twitched occasionally and from time to time he would look up and turn his head in the
ir direction. Merroc didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he unconsciously let it out.

  ‘We are honoured to witness this, my daughter,’ he whispered softly, his eyes filled with reverence. He reached out a hand to squeeze Valkia’s shoulder, hoping to build any number of bridges in the gesture, but she squirmed free from his grip and his hand fell to his side.

  ‘Honoured? Never mind that! There is enough meat on that stag to feed several families for a number of days.’ Valkia’s response shocked Merroc.

  ‘You cannot! To kill such a beast... Valkia, such an act would bring the wrath of the gods down on us.’ Merroc was genuinely shocked that his daughter would willingly sacrifice an animal that was considered such a good omen. There was a bestial hunger in her eyes. She was the hunter and the black stag was her prey. She was staring at it with intensity, her eyes roaming across its glossy skin, doubtlessly considering the best place to embed her spear.

  Merroc shook his head in disbelief. ‘If you do this thing, Valkia, then I will no longer consider you to be any daughter of mine. I will disown you entirely.’ That got her attention. She took her gaze from the stag and turned with aching slowness to stare at her father, the dark pools of her eyes giving away nothing of the thoughts that churned beneath the surface. When she did finally speak, it was with such hatred that Merroc felt a cold shudder run down his spine.

  ‘If you choose to cast me out, father,’ she said, placing heavy sarcasm on the word. Merroc had not been a father to her for many years in any sense other than that of their blood tie. ‘Then you will make an enemy of me. Are you sure th...’

  Whatever she was going to say was cut dead by the sudden flight of the stag. It bolted into the woods, sending up a shower of damp leaves in its wake. Immediately alert, Valkia shifted position, forgetting the argument with her father and crouching with one leg placed slightly behind the other. She was like a snake, coiled and ready to strike.