The further north they travelled, the more intense these feelings became. Anger, rage and in particular paranoia magnified and spread amongst the army. The formerly organised group were starting to splinter and break apart. But Valkia didn’t care. Not any more. Her heart and mind were too firmly fixed on achieving the goal she had set.
Although the crazed weather never settled into any kind of recognisable pattern, the wastes were almost uniformly flat. Drifts of grey dust would sometimes give way to unyielding black rock or thickly veined green marble. At other times they crossed fields of crushed bone littered with the remains of countless dead. Those hunting parties that returned invariably came back empty handed and supplies continued to dwindle. More than one man suggested slaughtering the sick to ease the pressure on the rations until Hepsus silenced them with a furious retort. But always... always... that underlying sense that the man walking next to you was looking for an opportunity to stick a dagger between your shoulders.
Three days came when rain drummed down from the skies in a seemingly endless flow. It dampened the spirits of the Schwarzvolf and even Valkia had to concede to the need to find shelter. They had found abandoned caves that bore no obvious signs of recent habitation and they had taken a break from their journey within their dank walls. They were small and with so many bodies inside became quickly crowded, but the army was able to manage some small reprieve from the elements.
Valkia, always curious about such things, had explored deeper into the caves, discovering an intricate network of tunnels that linked them to one another. Lighting her way with nothing more than a burning torch, she walked deep into the heart of the barrow.
At the heart, she found a huge chamber that sported a number of human skeletons and countless skulls. Aged and crumbling, they had clearly been here for a long time. Valkia’s heart had pounded to the realisation that the iconic representation of her god was drawn in faded sigils upon the cave walls. She traced a finger over the barely visible sign. Close examination had led her to discover further images and runic scrawlings upon the walls. The writings she could not even begin to understand, but one image stood out beyond all.
A winged beast of some sort, with a human shape and curling, bestial horns was depicted soaring above a straight line that symbolised the earth. It was a poorly rendered piece of artwork to be sure, but it was repeated so many times within the heart of the cave system that Valkia could not ignore its obvious importance.
It would be many years before she came to truly understand what it stood for.
After the trolls, they had seen nothing living for days, though the fearful cries and ever-growing numbers of missing men suggested that something roamed here and called the wastes home. This did little to disperse the anger that was running at a high throughout the army and it came almost as a relief when, after they had crossed a seemingly endless plain of blue ice, they were set upon by an army of wild beasts.
‘There is an army of creatures approaching from the... west!’
The report had come back from the forward scouts and despite their low mood, Valkia’s army were prepared and ready to face anything that came their way. There was a hunger; an eagerness in their eyes that filled the Gorequeen’s heart with a swell of pride. All the bitterness and jealousy, all the sneering disdain she had felt for them over the past few days melted away in the anticipation of a battle to come.
The scouts had not lingered when they had spotted the approaching force moving with some speed towards them and so had been unable to give exact numbers. The best they had to go on was that the unknown army were perhaps equal in size to that of Valkia’s.
When they finally came into sight, Valkia was unsure of what to make of them. The northlands were riddled with small tribes of beastmen, but they had never mustered in anything approaching the number that bore down upon the Schwarzvolf. From a distance, they looked human. They were wearing furs not unlike those of the Schwarzvolf, but they were not moving along in a manner she was used to seeing. Some loped on all fours, like animals as they raced eagerly towards the huge travelling army. Many sported huge, curling horns and several towered over their companions, thickly muscled, bull-headed beasts. Across their backs were slung crude weapons, clubs for the most part, but here and there Valkia spied longbows and quivers filled with arrows.
‘Ready yourselves,’ roared Hepsus. ‘Shields to the fore!’ It was unnecessary; the army had already deployed themselves into formation. As a shield bearer herself, Valkia slotted into the front line, the daemon-head of Locephax raised and locked with those either side of her. If her neighbours were made uncomfortable by the proximity of the monstrous trophy, they had the good grace not to let it show.
Now that the approaching group were close enough, Valkia was assured that they were not here to offer friendly greetings. Their faces were twisted and inhuman and some were warped beyond recognition. The one at the head of the pack was crowned with a colossal pair of twisted rams horns and covered in a thick mane of coppery hair, matted with gore. It clutched a pair of massive, notched cleavers and its bulky muscles attested all too clearly to its ability to use them. Those either side of him were similarly bestial, though not nearly as threatening.
‘Their leader,’ Valkia hypothesised aloud. She received a terse nod from the warrior next to her. The beastmen thundered toward them, their wild charge entirely committed and the one in the front barked out an unintelligible few words. They were obviously a command of some kind, because several of the smaller beasts rose up on their hind legs and reached for their bows.
‘Watch for arrows,’ shouted Hepsus who was somewhere off to the right. Valkia bit back the scathing retort about not being blind and merely focused her attention on the creatures. The arrows were loosed in a flurry, although there were only a handful of archers, and they either fell short of their target or thudded into shields.
‘They have made their intentions clear,’ Valkia called out in a commanding tone that rivalled the red-haired beastman’s own. ‘They are the enemy. Schwarzvolf, in the name of the Blood God – attack!’ Her spear arm, which had been raised, came down in a sweep and the shield line marched relentlessly towards their attackers.
Their bestial enemies crashed into the shield line with thunderous cracks of splintering wood, the ring of metal upon metal and the unfettered screams of the dying. The beastmen clearly had no concept of organisation and fought as a wild, savage mob. The Schwarzvolf fought back with equal tenacity and a grim unity that eclipsed the mistrust that had so recently blighted them. Axes, cleavers and clubs rose and fell with murderous repetition, splitting skulls and reaping bloody ruin among both sides, but after the initial shock of impact the tribesmen began to push back.
One of the beasts, small and wiry and practically naked but for a loincloth, hurled itself onto the back of one of Valkia’s warriors. With a snarl, it opened its mouth wide and tore off the unfortunate man’s ear. Valkia caught a glimpse of razor-like teeth and hands tipped with wicked-looking nails that were curled under like talons.
The warrior fell to the ground, blood gushing from his head and almost instantly, his attacker was on him, tearing chunks of flesh from his face and scratching viciously at his throat. It took four swords through the torso to put the thing down, such was its determination. Valkia’s warrior lay in screaming agony beneath its corpse, his blood pooling beneath him, but there was no time to lend assistance as the other creatures were similarly hurling themselves bodily at their prey.
It was a blur of violent activity. The careful formation of the shield line had long since fallen apart as the Schwarzvolf defended themselves desperately from the attacks of these feral monsters. Swords clashed against their heavy clubs and everywhere, men and beasts grappled with each other. Valkia was engaged with facing down the army’s obvious leader. His face was a blunt snout, leonine with amber-coloured eyes that gave little to no hint of any intelligence. But he was quick and dodged her spear-thrusts with ease.
She b
rought up her shield again and again to deflect him and if he was daunted by the appearance of Locephax, he gave no sign of it. He came at her relentlessly, mouth open to reveal his filed teeth as his cleavers rang against her spear and shield. She twisted Slaupnir beneath one of the weapons and deftly wrenched the blade from the creature’s grasp, the cleaver tumbling away into the raging battle. Undaunted, the beastman seized the haft of her spear and pulled it from Valkia’s hand. It cast the beloved weapon contemptuously aside and drove forward once more, its remaining cleaver hammering at her daemonic shield. On the third stroke, the snarling mouth of Locephax snapped shut around the offending blade and held it fast.
The beastman actually managed to look momentarily surprised. Valkia seized the opportunity and let the shield slip from her arm. Mustering every ounce of rage she possessed, she physically launched herself at her attacker.
He was bigger and stronger than she was, but she was more determined to survive than the creature gave her credit for. She kicked and punched, grabbing at great handfuls of his thick, red hair. Once her grip tightened around the hanks of fur, she pulled in a way she had not done since she had been a child. Saliva dripped from the beastman’s open mouth, warm and foul-smelling and she slapped out at it. Her palm met the flesh of his face in a stinging blow and he turned his head, startled by her strength.
It was enough to give her the moment’s advantage and, putting all her effort into the move, she lunged forward and grabbed the creature by the jaws. It let out a snarl of indignation, the sound more human than she would have thought possible from such a twisted throat and it thrashed in her grip. It flailed at her with its claws and hooves, gnarled knuckles pounding at her back and shoulders, but she would not relent. Fire filled her veins with a killing frenzy and she could feel unholy strength swelling within her once again.
The nearby members of his wild army, seeing their leader about to die, broke off from their own engagements and began to swarm towards Valkia. Charging after them, the rest of the Schwarzvolf defended their queen with everything they had.
Valkia was unaware of what was going on around her. Everything had narrowed to just her and the red-haired beastman struggling beneath her. She was going to tear it apart with her bare hands. Muscles like cords bulged from its neck as it attempted to snap its mouth shut and shear off Valkia’s hands, but by agonising inches it was losing the battle. Unnatural vitality pulsed through her limbs, swelling her arms and shoulders with power; allowing her to shrug off the beast’s increasingly frantic struggles. As soon as she ended the life of this foe, she would drink deeply. A hunger, a desperate need to taste the life’s blood of her enemy filled her and she could not deny it.
‘Blood for the Blood God!’
With a guttural, animal cry, she redoubled her efforts, splitting the skin of the beastman’s shaggy cheeks and wrenching an agonised wail from its throat. Red welled up instantly, running down its face in thick streams and pooling on the ice. Behind her, seven of the wild-eyed creatures readied their clubs, their aim to smash the skull of this woman who was about to take their leader’s life.
Valkia remained supernaturally unaware of their presence and then of the arrival of Hepsus and the rest of her warriors as they cannoned into the enemy with violent force. All that mattered was the blood of her victim.
Beneath her, the beastman bucked and heaved as though trying to steal his final chance to escape. She stopped him immediately with a final, terrible surge of strength that tore the top of his head off. Dark blood fountained from the useless lower jaw and ragged neck and Valkia let the hot blood gush over her, drinking her fill of his rich vitae. The shorn top half of the skull lay discarded, its empty, golden eyes staring glassily past Valkia to the warriors that stood behind, watching their queen gorge herself.
Around her, the fading sounds of battle dwindled to silence. When she had finally satisfied her fury, she raised her blood-stained face to observe several other Schwarzvolf warriors copying her actions, gulping down the blood of the fallen. Others stood to the side, their faces varying from expressionless to disgust.
Valkia ran the back of her hand across her bloodied face and got to her feet. Without meeting Hepsus’s oddly accusatory stare, she picked up her spear and shield and dusted herself down. When he spoke, there was a strange straining in his voice.
‘We lost more than a hundred of our men in that battle, Valkia.’
The Warspeaker’s voice sounded as though it came from a long way away; tinny and distant. She looked up at him and blinked away the red haze of battle.
‘So many?’
‘Look around you.’ Hepsus gestured. There were warriors with their skulls caved in by clubs or hacked with blades. ‘Some were practically eaten alive before we could pull those things off them. The rest are not yet dead. But they will be soon. More than a hundred men, Valkia.’
Valkia felt nothing. No regret that her people had died, no satisfaction that the enemy was defeated... she felt nothing. Her heart was not motivated to feeling at all. All that had mattered was the kill.
‘Our army still numbers in the hundreds,’ she said eventually with casual indifference in her voice. ‘Salvage their weapons and armour. Leave the bodies. Then we move on.’
Hepsus did not bother to tell her that in the wake of the battle, whilst she had been feasting like an animal on the warrior, a large contingent had slunk away into the gloom with Edan at their head. Her army had once numbered more than a thousand and now barely a few hundred sick and wounded men and women remained.
They moved on. Ever northwards.
The plains of dust and ash and crushed stone were apparently endless. The air was tinged with that crisp, clear scent that suggested the weather was forever on the cusp of frost and ice, but laced with the copper stink of blood and the acrid smell of burning metal. What remained of the Schwarzvolf army that had not turned back in fear – earning Valkia’s venomous sworn oath that she would hunt each one down on her return and kill them – or had not died of the wasting sickness, marched in silence.
There was no camaraderie amongst brothers and sisters. No idle banter. None of the easy talk and gentle squabbling that had marked their earlier steps. Now they did not speak to one another.
Valkia had grown increasingly withdrawn and short-tempered as they travelled, her thoughts turned inward as she dealt with the constant whispers of Locephax. The daemon’s delighted anticipation grew by the day. Her head ached from dealing with his promised whispers of revenge and satisfaction.
The army had been on the march for an interminable period of time. It felt like years but could have been only months. Valkia did not know when she had stopped counting the passage of the days. Time had become meaningless, particularly when the days had grown so short that at times, the wan light that marked the arrival of morning lasted barely a few hours before the oppressive darkness closed in once again.
Further encounters had been brief and surprisingly easy. They had fought against more of the beastmen, each one more twisted and warped than the previous. Feral savages and packs of drooling god-touched with writhing limbs and sucking maws. Distorted, mutated and disfigured creatures that may once have been as human as the Schwarzvolf were hacked down like saplings if they put themselves into the dwindling army’s path.
And still they headed north.
The God Lights were strong in the skies here; illuminating the bleak and desolate wasteland with their ever-shifting yellow and green hues. Yellow and green. Occasionally tinges of blue. But never red. Valkia stared into the skies night after night willing a sign from her god. Some indication that he was waiting for her. Some sign that he was pleased with her progress.
When the red finally came, so did the end of the world for the queen of the Schwarzvolf. When the God Lights finally burned like flame with the colour of the Blood God, Valkia the Bloody stepped into darkness unending.
This was not the gloom of night to which they had become accustomed. This darkness was all-enc
ompassing. It had shape, volume and an almost tangible feel. To step into it was to turn your face forever more from the light of day. And the Schwarzvolf stepped willingly. Such a shroud of darkness was a thing that invited fear and horror, but the remaining members of the army bore it stoically. They had little choice.
All around them could be heard whispers. The voices of the damned, Hepsus suggested in a flat, emotionless monotone. The voices of those who had stepped this way before. Warning them. Threatening them. Trying to turn them away at the last.
But they were made of stronger stuff, or at least some of them were.
In many ways, the mental hardships of battling invisible enemies were more complex and difficult than anything that the Schwarzvolf had accomplished during the course of their epic journey. For each warrior, there was a personal daemon. For each man or woman, there were torments that were designed to strike fear and doubt into their hearts. A few weaker-willed warriors succumbed to the creeping madness. They were killed without compassion or without hesitation by their stronger fellows, while the fastest vanished without a trace, their mad laughter echoing in the heads of their companions.
The further into the blackness they walked, the harder the passage became. The darkness thickened until every step was a struggle. It was like wading through a frozen river and every bit as bone-marrow chilling. A pressure was exerted on them, pressing them backwards. But heads bent low, on they marched.
Whispers became words. Words became laughter, low and sinister. Rotting, half seen cyclopean creatures plucked the sick and the weary from their number. There were sensations; eerie and terrifying. The brush of invisible feathers across the face, or the grip of strong hands clutching at ankles and legs, trying to pull their would-be victims to the ground. Some simply lay down and let the sensuous, grasping fingers pull them out of sight. But there was nothing they could physically beat off. Nothing they could actually fight. Nothing they could even see.
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