Valkia the Bloody

by Sarah Cawkwell

  ‘How much time?’ Bellona interrupted his thoughts and he waved a hand at her irritably, briefly forgetting he was supposed to be weak after his ‘episode’.

  ‘It will soon be nightfall. I will bring you my thoughts to tonight’s Circle,’ he said. ‘Let me rest, girl.’

  Bellona got up from his side and moved to the tent. Her condition caused her to move awkwardly, the growing baby adding a rolling gait to her movement. She paused in the entrance of the dwelling, her hand resting easily on her stomach and spoke the words that would ultimately spell her own fate. Her intelligence was outstanding and the trap she had laid for him was sprung.

  ‘You seem very sure of the hour of the day, Uncle,’ she said, quietly. ‘I did not share that information with you. I am very pleased to see that you are so quick to recover your senses.’

  She left the tent and left Edan to dark thoughts of further treachery.

  Affronted and insulted by the matter, Eris’s would-be husband had left the camp of the Schwarzvolf and not sealed the marriage. It had put the Godspeaker right back at the beginning of his plans and he silently raged at his own lack of foresight in the matter. Nonetheless, finding other suitors had not been terribly difficult. Whilst all the neighbouring tribes treated the daughters of the dead queen with tentative distrust, they were nonetheless desirable. Not only for their positions as the heirs to Valkia’s leadership, but for their physical appearance.

  To Edan’s irritation, Eris had announced that clearly the postponement of her marriage had been a sign from the Four themselves that she would not marry. Angered by this, but unable to let it show, Edan turned his attentions to dealing with Bellona instead. It had been the hardest thing for him to feign grief when Bellona’s husband had died during a border skirmish with would-be invaders. By then she was nearly seven months pregnant and it seemed unlikely he would be able to deal with her without bringing attention to the matter.

  He had plotted and schemed and eventually, had negotiated with one of the bigger tribes. He could not leave his poor niece to bear a child with no husband, he had said. Promises of elevated status within the tribal hierarchy were made and a variety of valuable goods exchanged hands.

  It was more than a month before the seeds of his multi-layered and conniving scheme could germinate and finally come to fruition.

  The man who came to seek Bellona’s hand in marriage arrived at the tent of the Godspeaker more than three months after he had set the wheels in motion. Hrafi was young and arrogant and at first both girls dismissed him as another empty-minded fool. But once he engaged the pair of them in conversation they discovered that behind his exterior lay a mind as sharp as any they had encountered.

  Eris soon tired of his company, but could tell that her sister was infatuated with the man. She had taken the death of her husband well, but Eris knew that Bellona had missed the presence of a man in her bed. At first, Eris could not hide her disappointment. She had hoped that Bellona would follow her example and eschew marriage with an external tribe. But she loved her twin and would not stand in the way of her happiness.

  For five days, Hrafi was entertained by the Schwarzvolf. Along with his small retinue, he was granted space to stay within the host camp, and every morning he emerged from the tent in which he had slept with a new gift for the apparent object of his desire. Once it was an exquisitely hand-tooled amulet that he told her would protect her from any evil spirits. On another day he had sat by her side and carved her a fertility statue from a piece of wood. The humour of such a gift, given Bellona’s advanced state of pregnancy, had made her laugh; the first time she had done so in an age. Hrafi was strong, thoughtful, and talented and seemed to be not in the least perturbed by taking on another man’s child as his own.

  Edan watched carefully from a safe distance. He had performed the duty expected of him as both Godspeaker and relative of Bellona. For three of the five days he had been confident that his plan would play out as it was meant to. Throughout the fourth day, when he saw the looks that his niece and the young, dark-skinned warrior shared, he began to wonder.

  On the fifth day, he considered staging another fit as he had done at Eris’s nuptials. Hrafi and Bellona looked entirely too happy for his liking. But he had underestimated the slyness and competence of those he had hired.

  Amongst Hrafi’s retinue was a youth. A slave boy, he had been introduced as. Barely more than a child and of no consequence. He fetched and carried at Hrafi’s bidding and was seldom seen more than three feet behind his master. He was a scrawny, puling thing whose ribs could clearly be seen through the paper-thin skin of his bare chest. His head had been shorn of all hair and his dark eyes seemed huge in a drawn face that looked perpetually afraid. His tongue had been cut out long ago and he seldom made any sort of sound.

  Hrafi initially offered to make a gift of the boy to Bellona, but she declined. The Schwarzvolf were not the type to enslave others. So the youth trailed along behind his master like a dejected wolfhound. Hrafi occasionally threw him a strip of meat or some other treat and he would wolf it down hungrily. Bellona requested Hrafi’s permission to ensure that the boy was given a proper meal instead of scraps and despite pouting at this idea, her suitor eventually agreed. The slave-boy had given Bellona a grateful look as he had eaten a full plate of food for what was perhaps the first time in his young life.

  He frequently arrived at Bellona’s tent ahead of Hrafi, heralding his master’s arrival, so on the fifth day, nobody looked twice when the scrawny slaveboy made his way inside.

  She looked up as he entered the tent and treated him to a smile. Discussions and negotiations with Hrafi were going better than she could have hoped. Unlike her sister, Bellona was not averse to the idea of marriage and children borne through union with those not of Schwarzvolf blood. Her sense of duty and loyalty to her people was strong and she knew that there were many who hoped to see the Schwarzvolf regain the strength and power they had once wielded.

  ‘Does your master come to see me this morning, boy?’ Bellona asked him the same question she had asked for the last few mornings and he had nodded. His eyes were huge and agitated and she felt uncomfortable looking at him. She sighed and rose from her seat, no easy task given her advanced condition. The lack of a tongue meant that she could not easily expect him to tell her what had given him cause for a look of such fear. She had little patience for attempting to extract anything from him and was preparing to send him from the tent when he gripped her arms with his bony fingers.

  ‘Let go of me!’ The boy gripped tighter and looked up at Bellona desperately. He made abrupt motions with his head as though indicating she should leave the tent and her brow furrowed.

  ‘Unhand me, slave, or your master will...’

  ‘He should not be here.’

  The voice belonged to Hrafi who had come into the tent whilst she had been distracted with the slave boy. The youth continued to cling to Bellona and made a strange moaning sound that sounded like sheer desperation.

  ‘Remove your slave from my presence, Hrafi.’ Bellona’s voice contained all the haughty surety of her breeding and Hrafi’s brow arched at her tone. ‘Then explain why you allowed him to treat me this way.’

  ‘Of course, my lovely.’ Hrafi moved across and caught the slave by the shoulder, dragging him backwards with considerable force. He leaned in close and whispered something inaudible. The fear on the boy’s face was enough to send him running instantly from the tent. Hrafi smirked and turned to his would-be bride.

  ‘We would not want him to disturb us now, would we?’ He gave her a seductive smile that was almost lecherous in its intensity and he caught her in his arms, pulling her to him for a kiss. It was nothing he had not done already, but Bellona felt uncomfortable with his closeness and tried to pull herself free from his grasp.

  ‘Let go of me, Hrafi.’

  ‘You do not enjoy this?’

  ‘Let go of me.’ She tugged harder to free herself from him, but his strength far exceeded h
ers and this, coupled with her delicate condition, meant that she simply stumbled slightly. He seemed to come to his senses and released her. She sat down on the end of her sleeping pallet looking dazed and pale.

  ‘My love, I am sorry. I got over-eager.’ At that moment, the slave boy returned, looking timid and uncertain. ‘His timing is superb! Give me what I sent you for, brat.’ He snatched a soft bag from the slave boy and opened it. ‘Let me mix this for you.’ From the pouch he wore at his waist, he took a little pinch of herbs which he mixed with some water. ‘The healers of my tribe use this all the time for women expecting children. It helps settle an upset stomach and relaxes the mother.’

  ‘I don’t...’

  ‘Bellona, please. Let me do this thing for you.’ He smiled his charming, winning smile and the young woman stared up at him. Everything screamed out not to trust him given the way he had just treated her, but she saw in that smile the echo of his charm; the pleasant, caring young man who had won her heart. She gave him an uncertain smile back and Hrafi positively beamed. He dropped the herbs into a cup of water and stirred them around. He immediately gave the bag back to the slave boy and the child hopped from foot to foot nervously.

  The smell of the concoction drifted across to her and she wrinkled her nose. It was acrid and more than a little bitter. There was an earthy undertone to it, some herb that she did not recognise.

  ‘I am told that it tastes better than it smells,’ he promised her, kneeling down beside her and offering her the cup. ‘Take a sip. See what you think.’

  Dubiously, she raised the cup to her lips and took a tentative sip. The suspicion on her face disappeared almost immediately and she nodded. It tasted quite lovely.

  ‘Drink,’ he urged her and his apparently concerned expression was the last thing she ever saw in the seconds before the poison, fast-acting and lethal, began to take hold. In a few seconds she had dropped into a deep sleep. It would take perhaps half an hour before she drew her last breath, but she would not suffer.

  Hrafi watched the young woman as she slept, her chest rising and falling gently. There were many barbarous ways he could have taken her life, but he had decided on the poison for reasons of his own – and it was not kindness.

  He had agreed to commit this murder on the promise of greatness, but he was also no fool. He had seen through Edan’s plan quickly enough. The Godspeaker of the Schwarzvolf had never intended to honour his word and Hrafi was about to turn the tables on him.

  ‘Slave,’ he called aloud. He drew his dagger from his belt. ‘Come in here. I have need of you.’

  He had very little time. He intended to make sure it was well-spent. She would stay alive long enough for him to carry out the rest of his plan.

  An hour later, Eris found the body of her twin sister.

  Suspicious at the length of time Hrafi had taken paying his respects, she had attended Bellona’s dwelling and called for her sister to come outside. There had been no response so she had leaned forward and listened very carefully. She could hear soft sobbing.

  Tearing the entrance open, Eris darted inside and found the most grisly of scenes before her. Her sister, her beautiful, vivacious and courageous sister was most certainly dead. Her body was laid on the floor and her eyes were closed. There was a look of oddly peaceful contentment about her which suggested that she had not been aware of what had been done to her.

  The sobbing came from the slave boy who had Bellona’s head in his lap. He was stroking her hair and weeping. He looked up at Eris in fear and made his peculiar grunting noise. Eris paid him no heed. Her eyes were fixed on her sister’s belly. Her tunic had been torn apart and the infant that she had carried almost to term had been cut from her, and she had been left to bleed out whatever of her life had remained. For a wild moment, Eris realised she had gotten so used to seeing Bellona looking so engorged with her baby that the woman lying before her seemed to have burst like an overripe fruit. Glistening strands of her intestines were visible and the contents of her abdomen and uterus had spilled everywhere.

  Eris had fought on the field of battle countless times. She had seen evisceration, decapitation and any number of grisly deaths. But for the first time in her life, bile rose and she turned away from the scene, retching violently. The contents of her stomach removed, she dropped to her knees beside the scene, shoving the slave boy away violently and grasping her sister’s body in her arms.

  As an adult woman, she had never cried. But she did now. She screamed at the slave boy to fetch a blanket so that she could at least cover Bellona’s dignity and the boy did as he was told. Eris’s scream of rage brought others and eventually Edan appeared as well. He took in the scene and realised instantly that Hrafi had played him for a fool.

  ‘We must find him,’ he said at once. Eris, almost inconsolable with grief felt wildly grateful and did not stop for a second to think that Edan wanted Hrafi for his own purposes. ‘His crime must not go unpunished.’

  ‘He has been gone some time judging by how much blood she has lost,’ said one of the healers who had rushed to inspect her body. ‘None of us know where he has gone.’

  Many pairs of eyes turned to the slave boy who let out a wail and shook his head vigorously. Edan stared at him coldly.

  ‘Put him in the Pit,’ he said in a tone that was unlike his usual affable manner. ‘He will pay the price for serving a traitor. And get together a party to travel to Hrafi’s tribe. We will get answers. I promise you that.’

  But Hrafi was not there.

  His tribe denied all knowledge of what he had done. A prince amongst their people, Hrafi had announced his intention to marry into the Schwarzvolf and his people had disowned him. They would not have let him come back.

  Despite his best efforts, Edan realised that he would not easily track down the barbarian who had betrayed him. He had planned Bellona’s death, that was true enough. But he had also planned to take the infant for himself, to raise the child in a manner fit for a future leader. Valkia’s grandchild would be a valuable commodity. As a girl, she would have been a fine prize to tout. As a boy...

  But he would never even know. The humiliation was great and Edan took a spiteful revenge by having the slave boy publicly executed as a traitor. In an act of generosity, he fought down his urge to carry out the process himself and let Eris do it. She had done so gladly, needing to feel that justice had somehow been served. And unknowingly following the pattern of her mother so many years before her, she performed the ritual disembowelling on a traitor who had been party to the death of one of the ruling family.

  The innocent slave boy, who had been too frightened to refuse his master’s order and unable to warn Bellona as he would have liked, welcomed death with a calm stare. No sound left his mouth when Eris tore out his guts. He dropped to his knees and stared straight ahead. Eris had thrown her dagger to one side and snatched a battle=axe up in one hand. She did not make a clean job of beheading the boy and it took four blows before his head parted company with his shoulders. Indulging her need for revenge, Eris was in no mood to care about such niceties.

  From his vantage point beside the scene of execution, Edan smiled. He had all but declared war on Hrafi’s former tribe, but that was fine. The Schwarzvolf needed to keep their blades honed and their battle-senses sharp. It had been an elaborate, intricate plan and Edan had never once been outsmarted. He glowered at the dead slave boy as though it had all been his fault.

  ‘Hang him out with the others,’ he said, waving a casual hand at the body. ‘And bring me more wine.’

  FOURTEEN

  Emergence

  In the realm of man, time moved on. Ten years passed and yet in the place between worlds, that realm wherein dwelt the gods themselves, time had no meaning. For the consort of Khorne, a year could pass in less than an hour. She had no concept of the passage of the years beyond her realm. Neither did she care.

  For a long while, Valkia had lost herself in the eternal battle, her sense of purpose having been swall
owed up in the glory of Khorne’s gift. She was no longer a human warrior queen, but a creature of destruction. Her wings gave her a freedom she had never had in life and her ferocity was unsurpassed. From the moment she stood in the presence of her lord and master, she was totally lost in his service.

  He had been satisfied with her new appearance, completing her new form with additional gifts: a mane of spines sprouted where once she had sported her raven black hair. They gave her a fearsome appearance, but somewhere beneath it all, somewhere beneath the new, feral creature that she had become, Valkia was still an astoundingly beautiful woman. She was clothed in a suit of baroque armour wrought from brass and black iron in the hell-forges of the infernal realm. The overlapping plates fit snugly to her lithe form and accentuated every curve of her powerful, slender body while living chains bound themselves to her collar and belt, laden with the skulls of the favoured.

  The flayed hides of defeated daemons were draped over its burning, black plates. The ruddy flesh hissed and hardened, its unnatural fortitude turning aside sword and axe while it writhed with shackled power and unholy runes.

  Blood oozed from the armour as soon as she was buckled into it and within moments thick ropes of gore trailed to her ankles. If she stood in one place for too long, the seeping fluid would pool beneath her, reflecting half-formed faces of the slain. The blood of the eternally tormented was a weapon in its own right, adding to the palpable aura of terror that emanated from the daemon princess.

  So armoured, wielding her beloved Slaupnir and bearing the daemon-shield, Valkia looked upon herself. She gazed upon the terrible, wonderful changes that had been wrought upon her and she was pleased. She was her master’s servant, his beloved and his consort, but she was treated by the other daemonic entities that fought the eternal battle with fear and loathing in equal measure. Her will was absolute, her wrath terrible to behold and her vengeance swift.