Memories of what had happened were starting to break through and she remembered the moment the haft of her spear had splintered. She recalled hurling the bottom half away. She stared down at the head of the weapon, held in her hand. The iron blade was pitted and dulled from her efforts to hack through her fallen enemy’s ribcage.
‘I need a better weapon,’ she said, more to herself than to Eilif. She shook her head to clear it of the battle haze that still permeated it and she straightened her shoulders. Looking around at the massacre that she and her men had wrought she felt a shiver of satisfaction. The raiders had been delivered a lesson, of that there was no doubt.
There was still work to be done of course and Valkia busied herself with the rest of her warriors gathering together the corpses of both the farmers who had died attempting to defend their home and those of the dead enemy. The latter were beheaded and the trophies collected. The headless bodies were then flung together in a haphazard pile. As she put the torch to them and the stench of burning flesh filled the air, the young leader of the Schwarzvolf felt the madness finally begin to recede. It was then that the timorous voice of the camp’s leader finally cut into her awareness.
‘You are Merroc’s daughter.’ It was not a question and something in the tone annoyed Valkia. She turned to consider him haughtily.
‘I am,’ she confirmed. ‘I am the hetwoman of the Schwarzvolf now.’
‘Yes,’ he said and Valkia wondered if he might be feeble-minded. He spoke slowly and carefully, each word being considered ‘Thank you for your efforts here.’ He took in the slaughter with a sweeping gesture of one hand. His eyes lingered briefly on the pile of bodies smouldering in the corner of his camp. ‘We owe you a debt, of course.’
‘Of course.’ She struggled not to roll her eyes. This was usually where the offers of marriage would be put on the table. She was not in the mood to deal with that today. Still slightly dazed from her brief brush with insanity, her temper was on a hair trigger. But for once in her life, the young woman was pleasantly surprised. The villager reached over and took the broken spear from her hand. He considered the dulled blade and then looked down at her dagger.
‘I forged many of the swords your people wield,’ he said. ‘Your father himself told me my work was excellent. That dagger you carry, that was made by my uncle who melted down weapons taken from invaders from the south long ago. The metal is an unusual one and difficult to work if you do not have the skill. I would make you a new spear if you would accept that as payment? In the same style as your blade.’
The offer actually delighted her and her response in the affirmative needed no forced enthusiasm. People spoke of her dagger as though it were an object to be feared. Imagine what they would say if she had another weapon forged in the same style.
‘Accept our hospitality for a night or two,’ said the man whose initial caution was wearing off. ‘The weather continues to worsen and you must be weary after that battle.’ Valkia would have denied the fact but she was acutely aware that the men she had brought with her were showing signs of exhaustion. The fight had been hard, as had been the trek to reach it. She became gradually aware of an ache in her own bones and with a nod, she agreed.
For two days they enjoyed the rare chance of relaxing and left with freshly sworn allegiances to the Schwarzvolf. They fell instantly for the charms of the young woman and by the time they were ready to leave, their loyalty was absolutely assured. Valkia left behind two of her party to act as a solid guard for the camp and had to practically fight off the grateful embrace of the blacksmith.
‘Return in the spring, hetwoman,’ he said. ‘I will forge you a spear fit for a champion. It will be a weapon that will catch the attention of the gods themselves.’ She had smiled perfunctorily at him, acutely and even a little uncomfortably aware that she may already have achieved that.
The winter was not as harsh as the Godspeaker had predicted and spring came early to the Vale. But despite the comparative peace that had been theirs across the dark months, there were a never-ending stream of political issues that demanded Valkia’s attention. Delegates from non-allied tribes came to speak with her. Some practically begged for the Schwarzvolf’s patronage, some were more indifferent. All of them left impressed with her forthright manner, and tales of her shrewd competence and utter ruthlessness began to spread.
Her own people meanwhile were dealing with a tragedy of their own. Of six children born across the winter, only one had survived. Two had not even lived beyond their first few days and the other three had been monstrous things, warped and twisted whilst still in their mother’s wombs. They had not survived the traumas of childbirth and had been left in the forest.
The mothers of these god-touched children were as pragmatic as any of the tribe’s warriors and returned to their chores and daily lives without any external sign of the grief they must be enduring. There had always been babies born with physical deformities to the northern tribes, but the frequency of them was rapidly increasing.
Whispers of another curse began and Valkia threatened to cut out the tongue of anybody she heard speaking such nonsense. There was some speculation that perhaps the tribe needed to continue expanding its borders. A basic understanding of the problems of in-breeding was explored and the solution the hetwoman suggested was radical and startling.
‘We have always considered the suitability of females from other tribes for breeding stock,’ she observed during one of the regular Circle meetings that she found so tedious. ‘Why do we not consider men from outside the tribe as well? Perhaps the reason for all these deficiencies in our young is down to the men of this tribe and not the women?’ She leaned forward and studied the gathered Circle intensely. ‘Perhaps it is even something in the very air we breathe?’
Centuries of tradition, a rudimentary to non-existent knowledge of bloodlines and no small level of misogynistic ignorance had left the tribe – both men and women – as to little doubt that the mothers of the deformed infants must also be in some way deficient. It was they who produced the offspring after all. Valkia’s idle observation threw them into confusion and they debated the matter for what seemed like hours.
Talk. Always talk. Valkia was glad when the full thaw came. With the recession of the snows came the chance to travel up into the hills and meet with the Bloody Hand.
SIX
The Gorequeen
The hills above the Vale were a breeding ground for the dire wolves and other darker things that made life in the northern steppe so harsh. When they were not hunting the same prey that the humans used for sustenance, they were hunting the humans themselves. In the early spring, the aggression was high as the animals were entering their breeding season. Those who strayed too close to a nest or to a cave den would soon meet the wrath of nature’s most vicious creatures, desperate to protect their young. Other times, they would simply vanish, claimed by the denizens of the shadows.
As they travelled higher, where the air was noticeably thinner and colder than that in the Vale, Valkia found herself wondering just how robust the Bloody Hand must be to survive the harsh winters. If she had any real sense, she would have let them come to her, but something drove her up the steep hills. Curiosity. A desire to know more about this blood god whose blessings she appeared to have courted.
There had been a few small battles since the altercation in the outlying camp and every time Valkia waited... hoped... for another taste of that ecstatic battle-madness that had taken her in its embrace. But it had not come. Deron would certainly clarify matters for her; at least that was her reasoning. He could tell her more of the god. And if she was so inclined, she might suggest an alliance between her people and his.
Strangely, the latter idea was no longer as appealing as it might have been in the days when the two young people had first met. The first flush of attraction had worn off and whilst Valkia remembered Deron as a strong, muscular man – perhaps even an attractive one – he was more memorable as an individual who repres
ented a tribe with whom she felt the Schwarzvolf could take a further step towards the greatness she envisioned for them.
She remembered him also as the only man who had ever dared stand up to her with any kind of courage in the arena of battle, and for that reason alone, her respect for him was high.
The cry of a distant bird of prey called her attention back to the here and now and she squinted up into the sky. Hepsus tapped her lightly on the shoulder and indicated to a point just ahead. She followed his gesture. Standing amidst a scrubby patch of green bushes was a man. He was naked from the waist up and his chest was decorated with that same strange design she had seen burned onto the flesh of Deron’s body. The strange, stylised skull device stared back at her.
‘Schwarzvolf, hold.’ His voiced was tinged with the same guttural and slightly feral edge that she remembered. He stepped forward. On first glance he looked as though he was unarmed, but Valkia was wise enough never to make assumptions. She had seen men fall to carelessness and she would not make that same mistake herself.
‘I am the hetwoman of the Schwarzvolf,’ she said, needlessly. Clearly this man knew who they were, but there were courtesies and traditions that needed to be carefully observed. ‘I come to seek an audience with your chieftain.’
‘Deron said you would come when the snows cleared.’ The man nodded. He was eyeing Valkia from head to foot, taking in her comparatively diminutive form with undisguised appreciation. She remained entirely unselfconscious under his slightly lascivious scrutiny, used to such looks. She held his gaze and adopted a faint air of boredom.
‘He said you were good breeding stock,’ he observed aloud. ‘A little skinny for my taste, but you are strong. That much is obvious. You would bear him many fine sons. Aye, and daughters, too.’
She was furious, but did not let it show. She was not some prize mare to be shown off as an asset. That Deron saw her as nothing more than this was more than a little disappointing and a core of resentment against him hardened in her heart.
‘We are here,’ she said in a voice that held a cutting edge, ‘to speak with your chieftain. Take us to him.’ She would deal with Deron later.
‘As you wish, Schwarzvolf.’ The bow was more mocking than respectful and it fanned the flames of her anger a little higher. They had no respect for the gesture she was making in travelling up here to meet with the leader of another tribe. As she and her retinue followed the bare-chested man further up the hill, she found her hand straying to the handle of the axe that she wore in place of her spear. She felt uncomfortable without her weapon of choice, but would have felt more uncomfortable still had she come up here unarmed.
The camp of the Bloody Hand, such as it was, consisted of a number of slightly sagging tents made from a patchwork of stitched hides supported by a single pole in the centre. Their escort pulled aside the entrance to one and gestured for them to enter. Ducking her head, Valkia and her ten warriors stepped inside. There was nobody else present and their guide indicated they should wait.
The flap of the tent closed behind him letting in only a sliver of light. It was more than enough to see by and Valkia studied the interior curiously. Just as with the tents of her own people, the first thing she recognised was the nearly overpowering scent of wood smoke. Strong as it was, it did little to hide the coppery tang of blood. It was then that she noticed the faces stretched among the layered skins of the tent, and that the hides were not those of beasts, but men.
A heap of skulls at the far side of the tent caught her attention and she moved across to kneel by them. She took a few of them up and studied them. Some were animal skulls, others human skulls. Every single one was pristine, cleaned until barely any stains remained on the bone. She had encountered many tribes who used bone in construction of tools, cutlery or weapons, but had never seen such a stash of them herself.
The tent flap opened wide and a huge figure filled the entrance. Valkia, a human skull in her hand looked up once again into the eyes of Deron, the man who would redirect the course of her history and with it, the shape of the warriors of the north.
It had taken a long time for Valkia to ask the question. All the necessary formalities had been tedious and she had been impatient. Her manners remained impeccable however and Deron’s father, Kalir, had been impressed with her. They had opened preliminary discussions about forging a possible alliance at which Deron had grinned widely.
Valkia’s continued annoyance at the man’s perception of her as goods and chattel was fired a little more by the look. How dare he be so arrogant to assume that she would offer herself as a brood sow to him. And yet… offspring from such a union could be fine and strong. There was some sense to it. The seeds of an idea formed in her mind, but she set it aside. There were other things that needed to be discussed.
When Kalir had left her and Deron to attend to other matters, the two young people had sat in comfortable silence for a while. When Valkia had dismissed her retinue, the look on Deron’s face suggested that he knew what she wanted from him.
‘Who is this blood god?’ She demanded the answer rather than ask the question. ‘You have my interest, Deron of the Bloody Hand. Now tell me why I have been dedicating my kills to a god I know nothing about.’
If he was disappointed that she wanted to talk rather than engage in something a little more intimate, he did not let it show. Deron leaned back against the side of his father’s tent and scratched his stubbled chin.
‘You know,’ he said, simply. ‘I see it in your eyes, Valkia of the Schwarzvolf. You have touched the ecstasy of Kharneth. Once the Blood God has caught you in his embrace, he will not let you go. And you would not wish him to.’
Kharneth.
Just hearing the name sent a shudder of delight through her and she nodded eagerly, wanting to hear more.
‘He thirsts for the blood of all those who oppose him or even those who follow him. Whose blood is shed is irrelevant so long as it is shed in his name. He demands tribute in death and skulls. His realm lies far to the north, beyond the mountains, beyond even the wild wastes. There, he sits upon a throne made from the discarded skulls of his fallen.’ Deron licked his lips. ‘Those he most favours he grants strength and power beyond imagining.’
Kharneth.
Valkia shivered although it was not even slightly cold. ‘My people have always followed the old ways,’ she said. ‘My Godspeaker divines the words of the gods through prophecy and dreams. It is the way things have always been. But the way of this Kharneth is something I can reach out and touch. It feels...’ She tailed off, trying to articulate that moment of intense ecstasy, the flood of excitement that had filled her entire being the day she had brutally massacred the enemy raiders. ‘It feels right,’ she said eventually. Deron nodded.
‘I saw the potential in you, Valkia,’ he said. ‘You have what the Blood God needs.’ He had moved a little closer to her. ‘You have what I need also.’ A hand reached up and stroked her hair away from her face. He held her gaze in his own and she gave him a dangerous smile.
He did not see the dagger until she had whipped it from her boot and had it pressed against his neck. ‘Move any closer, Deron, and you will lack the parts that make you a man. Continue to press your luck and you will lack a heart. Do you understand me?’ She gave him a supercilious sneer. ‘When – and if – I choose to ally my people to yours, then we can discuss such things. But not until.’ A pearl of red began to bead at the dagger’s point which she had held to his throat and he swallowed, very carefully. ‘Do we have an accord?’
He mouthed ‘yes’ and she nodded in satisfaction. With an oddly sweet smile, she then took the dagger away, sliding it back into her boot. ‘Excellent,’ she said. Reaching up, she wiped the blood from Deron’s throat, smearing it across his neck. Taking up the cup of wine that she had been given, she took a sip from it. ‘Now tell me more about this god of yours. Tell me more of Kharneth.’
Time moved onwards. Five years passed since the day Valkia had first dema
nded knowledge of the god she now devoted herself to most wholeheartedly. She found herself frequently flashing back to that conversation and particularly when she was engaged in warfare.
At times like now.
The air was filled with the sounds of battle as the two warring tribes met in combat that would determine once and for all who possessed the strongest warriors, the greatest strength. It was an intense and bloody mêlée of sweating bodies and flashing blades and the toll of life was already considerable on both sides.
Valkia fought at the head of her army as she had always done when words were no longer enough to secure the loyalty of other tribes. In the time since she had taken the mantle of the Schwarzvolf, her methods had become feared and at the same time deeply respected by the warlike northmen. It was hard not to respect a woman whose choice was simple. Pledge loyalty to the Schwarzvolf or die in a last-gasp attempt to maintain independence.
She was enforcing the second option. The tribe they fought had been given their chance. In the past year alone, the Schwarzvolf had grown to become the single largest tribe in the wastes. They moved across the steppe gathering smaller tribes into their collective as though they had simply not existed. The more their numbers grew, the larger the enemy they could approach.
Her spear held ready, Valkia turned to face the next man. Her dark hair was covered by a tight-fitting leather helmet and her once-battered armour had long since been replaced by something far more appropriate and impressive. Strong, hard leather was tooled with intricate designs by the best artificers she had found. The emblem of the Schwarzvolf, the wolf baying at the moon remained, but on the rear of the cuirass was the skull design of the Blood God.
Even the spear she held was little short of a work of art. The elderly blacksmith, true to his word, had forged her a masterpiece. She had respected his custom when he had gifted it to her and given it a name. Slaupnir. At her request, the smith had also forged the rune of the Blood God into its silvery blade, dedicating the weapon itself to the young woman’s new-found purpose.
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