Valkia the Bloody

by Sarah Cawkwell

  Locephax screamed. A terrible, shivering sound that caused more than one of the remaining tribesman to lose control of their bladder. Most turned and fled from the sound, but Valkia did not move.

  ‘Does that hurt, daemon prince?’ She leaned close and whispered the words to Locephax’s head. ‘Does it hurt?’

  Did it hurt like Hepsus must do? Did it hurt like she did knowing that she had been duped into this position? She would make this creature pay for the damage it had done. For now, she could keep it under her control with the torment of the rune on its face, but she already had an idea what she would do. She had witnessed Locephax’s power, even as a head.

  ‘Burn the body,’ she ordered, still staring down at the head. ‘And fetch me some nails. I’ll keep this thing from fleeing my grasp.’

  Nobody moved for several long moments, mesmerised by the sight of their blood-spattered queen and the still-screaming head.

  ‘I said move!’

  The few warriors who had slunk close enough to hear her did as they were commanded, except Hepsus who lingered. He still cradled the broken body of his son. Valkia could not meet his gaze, but she could feel his rage and grief even as the killing frenzy that had sustained her flowed from her bones and muscles.

  ‘You understand what happened?’

  There was a hesitation and Hepsus finally replied.

  ‘I understand. I do not forgive, but... yes. I understand.’

  ‘He will receive a warrior’s burial, Warspeaker.’

  Hepsus crossed back through the rope and paused, Aric across his shoulder. He turned and looked at his leader.

  ‘I will bury my son as I see fit, hetwoman. I do not need your kind of intervention.’

  ‘See how they start to turn on you!’ The head of Locephax was still loquacious, even having been severed from its body. She shook it violently – she could no longer think of it as a he – and it sputtered its rage. She may have won this battle, but she knew she had lost something vital.

  NINE

  Promises

  Within minutes Valkia had what she had asked for. A pale-faced boy presented her with eight heavy, square-headed nails. Despite her crushing weariness she drew her knife and carefully etched the symbol of the Blood God into the top of each one. She had trailed the head of the daemon across the camp, leaving a virulent scarlet trail in its wake and she stood whilst the smith finished his work.

  The head of Locephax had fallen silent for the time being, its eyes closed but from time to time, the eyelids would flutter. If anything, it appeared to be in a state of deep slumber. Valkia did not pretend to even begin understanding the deep sorcery that kept it alive, but she instinctively knew what she had to do.

  Taking the eight nails in hand, she lay down her shield on the ground. Kneeling, she reached a hand up for a heavy hammer. Setting the daemon’s head in the centre of her shield, she drove the first of the nails through Locephax’s forehead.

  The eyes flared open and the mouth opened in a silent scream of agony. Sound rushed in eventually and the cry of anguish was heard across the camp of the Schwarzvolf. It resonated around the Vale, but Valkia did not even flinch. She hammered in the other nails, securing the head to the front of her shield. When her work was complete, she rose to her feet and held the grisly article aloft.

  ‘With this trophy, this demonstration of my strength, the enemy will surely flee before us. And they will clear the way for the journey I must make.’

  The boy, looking decidedly uneasy at the proximity of the daemon’s remains, furrowed his brow.

  ‘Journey, hetwoman?’

  ‘To the far north,’ she replied, looking over at him. Her eyes shone as though she was feverish. ‘I must present this trophy to my lord and master. Imagine the reward.’

  The young man stared at her. The warrior queen had clearly lost her senses. But he was not going to tell her that. He did not envy the person who did.

  ‘She has crossed the line into madness.’

  Valkia had finally retired to her tent in order to rest. As soon as the adrenaline had left her system, the exhaustion of the fight with Locephax had finally caught up with her. Her injuries had been tended to; mostly superficial cuts and scrapes, but there had been one gash on her upper arm that had needed stitching closed. She had not even so much as flinched during the process, her eyes fixed hatefully on the daemon’s head. Restoring order to the devastated camp would be a much more arduous task and they were still discovering the true extent of the damage wrought by the daemon’s insidious will.

  In her absence, Hepsus had called a clandestine meeting of the Circle. Every member had come at the summons, including the hetwoman’s younger brother. Edan, now Godspeaker, sat quietly to one side, his head hooded, his thoughts contained. Occasionally, his glittering eyes would pass across the assembled warriors.

  ‘With respect, Hepsus, you are angry…’

  ‘You are right I am angry. She killed my boy.’

  ‘He attacked her. And besides, Hepsus, you must admit that he displayed a terrible weakness.’ The Warspeaker turned a furious stare on the man who had said this, but the other warrior didn’t back down. ‘He was weak-willed. I understand your grief at his loss, but would you have been able to live with the knowledge that he was weak?’

  It was strange. Had circumstances been different, Hepsus would have sneered at another man whose child had been weak. But Aric had been his son. His pride and joy. His future. And now the boy was stone cold dead. Hepsus was struggling to accept it.

  The Warspeaker controlled his rising temper. He could not afford to lose the backing of the Circle in this matter.

  ‘You are right,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, of course I am angry. But regardless... her choice in this matter put the whole tribe at risk. She accepted the creature’s challenge. Had she lost, who knows what further havoc it would have wreaked?’

  ‘But she did not lose, Warspeaker.’ The voice belonged to Edan. The boy pushed back his hood. He bore a startling resemblance to his older half-sister; the same dark hair and well-chiselled features. Intelligence oozed from every pore. ‘She defeated a daemonic emissary. Her power is unmatched. We should surely be praising her name, not trying to plant the insidious suggestion that she is mad.’

  Hepsus looked over at Edan. He was well aware of the relationship that existed between the Godspeaker and his warrior sister. She despised what she perceived as Edan’s weaknesses and kept him very much at arm’s length. For his part, the boy idolised her. He had been spun the tale as to how she had saved his life from a mother with murder in her heart and his loyalty was total.

  It suited Valkia’s purposes to have him on her side, but she spared little time for him and rarely openly acknowledged their blood ties.

  ‘Did you see the thing after she had torn it from the body? It still speaks. Still has some sort of unnatural life about it. It is sorcery of the very worst kind and she has brought it amongst us.’

  Edan’s dark brows feathered together. ‘There are those of the other tribes who say that my position within the tribe is one that smacks of sorcery, Warspeaker. Would you say the same of me?’

  Damn the boy and his silvery tongue. Hepsus kept his temper under control and forced a polite bow of the head. ‘Of course not, Godspeaker. What you have is a gift. A talent. But were your head to part company from your shoulders, your voice would be forever stilled. It does not bode well. Surely even you must agree with that?’

  ‘It is an omen, granted,’ conceded Edan thoughtfully. ‘I should perhaps spend some time in meditation on the subject. But all of you know my sister as well as I do. She will entertain a notion for a while and if it does not come to pass swiftly, she will grow bored with it.’ It was an extraordinarily honest appraisal of Valkia’s behaviour. Having conquered so many of the smaller tribes and absorbed them into her own, the warrior queen frequently grew restless. Without war, she felt imprisoned. She had been building her strength and her forces to take on the other large tribe
s of the north. That time was approaching, they all knew it.

  She had made a clear and concise statement. She planned to abandon the war on the tribes and head to the far north, to the place where they said the gods dwelt.

  The Circle gradually broke up after this, with no sense of resolution. The Warspeaker stared into the fire in the centre of the tent, lost in the flames and lost in his own thoughts. He did not notice that there was another presence until the voice cut through his ponderings.

  ‘Would you follow her?’

  Startled, Hepsus looked up. Edan had remained, still sitting in the shadows. The boy was too fond of mystery and for a moment, Hepsus was angered. ‘What?’

  ‘If she turned to you tomorrow and ordered you north, would you follow her?’

  ‘Of course I would! Are you calling my loyalty into question?’

  ‘The truth, Warspeaker?’ Edan stood up. He was slim, like his sister and taller. Just as she had seemed as a young woman, he looked as insubstantial as a reed. But Hepsus had seen the young man swing a great axe with ease. He knew that the wiry body hid a core of strength. ‘The truth… yes. I am calling your loyalty into question. You doubt my sister. You doubt her motives because you do not understand them.’

  The easy manner in which Edan said the words made Hepsus uncomfortable. The feeling came from knowing that the Godspeaker was absolutely right.

  ‘I am her right hand,’ he replied eventually. ‘I can see no end to this venture north but a poor one. I would not see the prosperity of the Schwarzvolf fall in the wake of one person’s whim – be that person the youngest child in the tribe or our queen. Does that put a question against my loyalty?’

  ‘Not to your people, no.’ Edan tipped his head on one side. ‘You have served your tribe well for many years, Hepsus. I would suggest that you may have to endure a little longer.’ His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Because there is a way forward, if you are prepared to listen to me.’

  Sensing something he couldn’t quite articulate, Hepsus stared at the boy in an attempt to gauge something, anything from his closed expression. But Edan was outstandingly good at giving away nothing in his body language. Eventually, the Warspeaker nodded.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you will.’

  She was running. Always running forwards; never running away. She was not fleeing from danger, but heading directly into it. There were sounds… inhuman sounds at her back, but they were not chasing her. They were running with her. A distant howl. She ran on.

  The sky ran red with blood. Her father… her father had told her once that when the Blood God was pleased, the skies would run scarlet. She stared up at the sky and stumbled, falling forwards.

  She put her hands out to stop herself landing on her face. Her fingernails had grown; curled like talons. They were the hands of a beast, of a daemon. Unable to rise, she stared at her unnatural talons as the army at her back continued to charge forwards. A terrible, searing pain tore through her and she arched her back in agony. She was changing. Becoming something else. Something… better? Something more?

  Her agony burst forth in a terrible scream that was half feral, half terror.

  She woke up.

  Her dreams had long been troubled, but since the death of Locephax, Valkia had begun to suffer true nightmares. Repeated visions of her elongated nails; her clawed hands swam before her eyes constantly and she had not managed a full night’s sleep in days. When she was not having the dream in which an army flowed at her back, she was reliving the battle with the daemon. Usually those ones resolved themselves as events had played out, with her victory.

  But sometimes...

  Shuddering, she would wake in a cold sweat, the fading vestige of the dream and the overwhelming memory that of the daemon tearing out her liver and feasting upon it. All her life she had been exposed to grotesque acts of wanton violence and never once had she had such nightmares. They weakened her, startled her, frightened her. And that fear, like many other things in her life, made her angry.

  She had thought of removing Locephax’s head from her shield, convincing herself that the unholy thing must be the source of all her sleep disturbances, but she could not. She had sworn to deliver the prize to the very foot of the Blood God’s throne and she would not go back on that promise. Over the days following the daemon’s demise, Valkia became increasingly driven and single-minded about the quest north until she lost her ability to see objectively.

  But Valkia was not so foolish as to think that she could travel such a distance alone and when she finally stood before the tribe, her eyes shadowed and her cheeks hollow from lack of sleep and sustenance, there was an immediate cadre of followers who instantly moved to stand beside her.

  Their loyalty filled her heart with a swell of pride. Winter was closing fast and the journey would be long and arduous. But still these men and women of her tribe showed their steadfast allegiance.

  But during the darkest watches of the night, a soft voice whispered words of treachery. They think you weak. They think you insane. They would let you die, Valkia of the Schwarzvolf. You are nothing to them but a hindrance. The whispers filled her with paranoid suspicion and she began watching her closest followers very carefully whilst at the same time drawing up her great plan.

  Within the week, she had promised. Within the week, they would begin their journey. She was filled with purpose unlike anything she had ever known and yet it was such a familiar sensation that she could have always felt this way.

  Her people were hardy and they were robust. A number of the outlying camps had been brought into the main fold of the Vale to bolster the numbers lost during the battle with Locephax. Despite such terrible, aching loss the Schwarzvolf thrived. Despite the countless deaths, they continued to dominate the tribes of the north. It was a testament to her tenacity and superlative leadership that her tribe had grown so large. Yet as she sat staring out across the Vale, she did not see the growth and richness of her people. She did not absorb the changes.

  Where once tents made from the skins of animals had stood, there were now semi-permanent wooden structures growing up in ever-increasing numbers. In the wake of the battle, an agreement had been reached that something more permanent was required and there were workers willing and able to perform the tasks necessary. As well as warriors, the Schwarzvolf had absorbed artisans into their number. Her people prospered and she resented it.

  She resented the stability of it all. She was born of a proud, noble warrior race and they had become a generation of peace-time farmers and hunters. It was demeaning. The Schwarzvolf had always been nomadic. This settlement was becoming permanent.

  Her fingers idly drummed on the arm of the wooden throne upon which she sat. Slaupnir rested across her lap and the daemon-headed shield was by her side. Locephax’s eyes were shut as it engaged in whatever passed for its slumber.

  Valkia let her eyes narrow as she scanned the activity that went on. A faint swirl of snow was blowing in the air, huge, fluffy flakes that drifted lazily on the fitful breeze. It was still too warm for them to do much more than coat things in a white powder before melting to nothing. The flakes rested on the various structures that had been built, but where they fell on the forge, they melted immediately. From within that large building, she could hear the sound of metal ringing on metal as the smith and his apprentice followed her orders to produce as much armour and weaponry as they were able.

  Warriors were seated in small groups, sharpening their blades and stitching tears in leather, or standing within the arena engaging in training exercises. Their swords clashed almost in harmony with the sounds of the forge.

  Others were busy at the central cookfire, skinning and salting meat for drying, or stirring seemingly endlessly at the huge, communal iron pot that served the entire tribe on a daily basis. Their staple diet consisted of stews made from the plentiful meat that they caught, supplemented by flat-baked, dark bread and fruit. The smell of a roasting haunch of venison, spit-t
urning over the fire wafted across her nostrils and she inhaled deeply, feeling her mouth water.

  All of these sights, sounds and smells were achingly familiar to her and, for a while, she had taken great pleasure in the ongoing prosperity of her people. But now she feared that she had tamed them. The wolf that was the symbol of her people was tamed and little more than a dog.

  Her fingers curled around the arm of the throne and she chewed on her lip. When she returned from her expedition to the seat of the Blood God, when she returned bearing his favour, she would rectify this domesticity. She would tear down the buildings and her people would rise again, instilled with fresh vigour.

  As if hearing her thoughts, the eyes of the head nailed to her shield fluttered open. A cruel smile touched its lips.

  ‘When you return, Valkia? If. My master is enraged still. He waits for you in the realm of the gods just as much as the savage you worship...’ The voice cut off as Valkia delivered a swift kick to its face.

  ‘Be silent, worm,’ she hissed. Locephax snorted in derision but did as she commanded. For good measure, she kicked the daemon again. It had little effect but it made her feel better.

  And yet his words, designed to fan the flames of her fear, had the effect of lighting a spark of determination. She cast another glance around her camp. She would put together her war party and leave before nightfall the following day.

  Before she changed her mind.

  ‘You sweep too low.’

  She was sparring in the arena with her half-brother. He had come to her barely an hour hence and asked if she would give him some training. She had never been approached by Edan for such a reason before and had treated him to a look of suspicion.

  He laughed. ‘If I am to accompany you on this venture, sister, then I should be as well prepared as I can be. Hepsus and the other warriors have given me much training, but I would consider it an honour if you would train me.’

  She had agreed, pleased that Edan had pledged his allegiance so openly, and was relieved to have something to occupy her thoughts. The two had entered the arena with training swords and buckler-sized shields, as this was Edan’s preference. They had been fighting for a while and she had repeatedly put her brother onto his back, the tip of the training sword at his throat.