Valkia the Bloody

by Sarah Cawkwell

  But she had lived her life as a warrior and although she thrilled to the ultimate gift of standing at Khorne’s right hand, she soon yearned to spill the blood of the living once again.

  Her daemonic form needed no sleep, no rest and no respite. But she would sometimes remember shards of what had been before, like half-remembered dreams. Those fragments unsettled her, teasing her with thoughts of tasks not yet done. She remembered a time before she had stepped into the flesh and armour she wore and had been something less, but that others had taken that from her.

  The memories of the great betrayal on the riven steps at the heart of the great wastes slowly filtered back into her thoughts and Valkia the Bloody remembered.

  She remembered and she burned with an unholy desire for revenge upon those who had failed her. She would stalk the lands of the north and she would visit her terrible rage upon them. She would spill rivers of blood in the name of Khorne and he would revel in the carnage. She would tear the limbs from the bodies of the treacherous cowards and feast on their lying tongues which she would pluck from their screaming mouths.

  A vision unfolded in her mind’s eye as her fury grew. She saw a village surrounded by a sprawling camp alive with activity. Tokens and offerings to the Four adorned every dwelling and a shrine housing roughly carved totems stood in a square at the heart of the settlement. They were nomads no more. Warriors still prowled the lanes and sparred together in a small arena, but they were not the wild men she had once known. The sight of their complacence sickened her.

  Worse, they had cast aside all that she had brought them in her long, bloody reign and had turned from the path of blood to something lesser.

  Valkia threw back her head and screamed her fury to the crimson sky, and the creatures of the eternal battle responded in kind. Monstrous throats roared in wordless, primal rage and clawed hands raised ebony blades in salute to the call to arms. The daemonic horde swelled and heaved at the promise of slaughter, their burning eyes following the sinuous, winged form as she parted the veil and stepped back into the world of men.

  Hell followed with her.

  At first, the cold, bloodless reality of the world hurt Valkia’s senses and she turned her face from the feeble light that broke through the banks of ashen cloud which churned endlessly above the blighted wastes. She had spent so long in the twilight of Khorne’s realm that the cruel sun brought a stabbing pain to her daemonic eyes.

  The host at her back hissed and spat in disdain for the world, but the promise of the bloodbath to come kept their thirst alive and their rage thrumming through their limbs. They would need to kill soon.

  She forced herself to look up at the storm-wracked sky and pushed the weakness from her with a force of will. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the constant lines of reality and what had been little more than a blur of colours resolved into the monolithic steps that led down to the plain.

  She sprang down three of the massive slabs and then stopped. Throwing back her head, she laughed at her own foolishness. Why should she walk? She had the power of flight now. She unfurled her wings and rejoiced at the magnificence of their sheer power. With barely an effort, she beat them gently, raising herself with ease from the cold stone of the steps. Borne aloft by the chaotic winds that poured from the abyss, Valkia descended to the plain like a fallen angel. Where her hooves settled, the grey dust parted and beads of blood welled up from the ground as if the land itself was wounded by her tread.

  The air here was charged with unfettered sorcery and it coloured the winds like oil on water, sticking to the tongue like the taste of metal. The glossy steps were still stained with old blood and marked from the countless deaths that occurred upon them and Valkia could easily identify the spot where she herself had fallen.

  A thought came to her. A hazy thread of memory formed in her mind and she grasped desperately for a name. A youth. A warrior who had been the only truly loyal follower. The only one who had possessed courage enough to follow her to the edge of the world.

  Kormak.

  At the foot of the steps a corpse lay face-down in the dust. Its flesh was shrunken and grey, mummified by the passage of years and the writhing magic that permeated everything. Tattered strips of skin hung like ribbons from the body, evidence of the dreadful wounds that had finally brought the tenacious young warrior down. For ten years it had lain on the very cusp of creation, in sight of the realms of madness but denied the promised glory.

  Valkia nudged the corpse over with her foot and it rolled onto its back. Ragged wounds lined Kormak’s face where the creatures of Slaanesh had torn him down, exposing desiccated muscle and bone beneath. His furs and clothing were stained and shredded and across his body were the multiple lacerations which had ultimately killed him. She fixed her gaze on the stump where his arm had once been and it filled her with pure, murderous anger. So many great, powerful warriors at her command and in the end, just the one who had believed in her vision.

  Hunkering down beside the remains of her most loyal follower, Valkia stroked a long-fingered nail across his ruined face. ‘Such a waste,’ she murmured. A low moan escaped from the ruined hollow of Kormak’s mouth and a pale wisp emerged from between its cracked lips.

  The misty exhalation expanded above the body, shimmering and bloating until it formed the outline of a man. Even incorporeal as it was, one arm still clutched a spectral axe with grim determination. The wraith’s features were set in a look of abject fury, its insubstantial form unable to vent its hatred on the flesh of the living.

  ‘Kormak.’

  Valkia marvelled at the raw tenacity of her one-armed devotee. He had been a decade dead but the heady combination of a violent death, the energies that coursed on the wind and his own thirst for vengeance had kept his spirit shackled to his sundered flesh. The spectre gave a reedy howl of impotent fury and locked its pale eyes with Valkia’s burning gaze.

  ‘You served me well in life, Kormak, and by extension you served Khorne. For long years you have prowled this place, denied your just reward – and your rightful vengeance. I go now to spill the blood of those that fled when they should have stood beside us.’ She reached out and caressed the ghostly cheek of the man before her. ‘Will you join me?’

  The shade let out a long, mournful wail that echoed across the desolate plain and the crimson daemons hissed in agitation. The host was eager for blood and they would not long be denied. Valkia gave the daemons a baleful glare and returned her attention to the soul of Kormak.

  ‘You swore to me that you would not fall behind and I do not yet consider your oath fulfilled. Khorne calls to your blood and must be answered in kind. Rise now and revel in the roar of battle once again.’ Valkia sunk her claws into the old flesh of Kormak’s corpse and the shade let out another moan, its maw distending into a snarl of bestial rage.

  With a crack of dry sinew and yellowed bone the cadaver’s jaw shuddered into unnatural life, matching its ethereal counterpart. Valkia moved her hands across the flesh of the corpse, cutting obscene runes that glowed with a fell inner light. As each burst into life, the wraith diminished, its spectral form shrinking back into its frame of skin and bones. Valkia completed her work by inscribing the angular rune of the Blood God on the bone of Kormak’s exposed skull. She continued to cradle his head in her hands, crooning soft words to him as though he were a baby. Barely a few minutes had passed before the half-dismembered warrior sat bolt upright, a yell of terrible anguish on his lips. His soul was once again shackled to his broken flesh. The rest was his decision.

  ‘Be calm, Kormak. Be calm.’ He stared straight ahead as long-dead memories cascaded uncontrollably into his mind. Visions of battle. Recollection of terrible fear and a moment of great calm. And darkness. He could remember the darkness.

  He tried to speak, but his half-destroyed face was only good for allowing him to make dry, hollow sounds. His desperate words came out as barely more than a grunt. It did not matter, his congealing mind told him. If you can grunt and scream, you c
an give voice to your rage.

  ‘Be calm. I have given you life enough to make a choice.’

  He could hear a voice. A female voice. It was both alluring and terrifying. He knew that voice. Another memory burst the surface of confusion.

  Another grunt left his mouth. He could not form the shape to say her name and it came out as a drawn-out ‘a’. The three syllables of his one-time queen’s name were clear in that sound. He reached out his remaining hand towards her and the daemon princess nodded. She caught his hand tightly and clutched it to her armoured breast.

  ‘Yes, Kormak. Yes, it is your queen. You have a choice to make. You can serve me again and in so doing become a warrior without peer, a champion of slaughter and a taker of skulls. If you do not choose this destiny then you can accept the embrace of oblivion and the eternal darkness of what lies beyond.’

  He shook his head and his twisted, distorted face moved imperceptibly as though he would smile. He mustered everything he had and managed to form a sound.

  ‘...ay, a.’

  ‘You wish to stay?’

  He nodded and there was such devotion in his eyes that Valkia’s hatred for those who had led to their mutual downfall grew even more. ‘So be it,’ she said. She released him from her grip and got to her feet. Raising her spear and shield to the sky she cried out to Khorne.

  A wind began to rise, whipping at the daemon princess’s mane and blowing up clouds of dust and debris from the plain. Kormak’s eyes widened in startlement at a gathering cyclonic vortex that moved towards him. Valkia watched the approaching phenomenon with a glitter of delight on her face.

  ‘Rise, my champion,’ she said. ‘Rise up from the long sleep and do the bidding of your queen and your lord.’ She watched as the broken, malformed Kormak was caught up by the twisting energies and lifted high into the air. His entire body stiffened, his limbs thrusting outwards and his head thrown back. No sound left him but that same long, low moaning that was all he could manage.

  The storm grew violent and Valkia had to unfurl her wings simply in order to maintain her balance. She caught the updraft and rose gracefully into the air where she could watch the changes that were being wrought upon her first champion.

  Already Kormak was unrecognisable. Molten brass and fire spewed from the stump of his severed arm and knotted itself into a new limb that throbbed with hateful life. A horned helm in deepest arterial crimson now covered his face and even as the Blood Queen watched, more armour plates were encasing his body. All the same deep, dark red hue, the suit was chased with brass edging and detailing. The stylised skull symbol of Khorne adorned his chest and the eight-pointed star of Chaos was repeated in black iron decals everywhere on the armour.

  The grunting had stopped and for a few moments, the armoured champion made no sound at all. Then a bestial roar emanated from within the helmet. The wind dropped abruptly and the warrior plunged to the ground heavily with a crash of metal. He was back on his feet almost instantly. The armour loaned bulk and height to his muscled form, but even so, Valkia was certain that were she to strip the armour from his back, the man beneath would be far bigger than he had been in life.

  Her eyes ranged over his impressive figure and she laughed in delight. With a warrior of this calibre at her side, the armies of the north would flee before her. She would scythe through them as though they were blades of grass and she would reap the skulls of the fallen.

  ‘I have gifts for you my champion, first among my warriors.’

  Valkia beckoned to the slavering daemons and five of the creatures approached, lashed by her black will. With a twist of power she seized their monstrous forms and crushed the stuff of their existence into something altogether more fitting. They shrieked and howled as their unnatural flesh twisted and bent, running together into a mass of bone, horn and teeth. The daemonic matter seethed and bubbled until, at last, it resembled a barbed axe, the huge smile of its blade a jagged line of snapping daemonic maws.

  ‘You will slake their thirst for slaughter, even as you feed your own.’ Valkia purred as the horrific weapon settled into Kormak’s eager grasp.

  Another curt gesture brought a steaming, iron-skinned beast thundering from the mob of daemonic minions. It lumbered obediently up to the waiting warrior and glared at him with hateful red eyes set deep within its massive, armoured head. The juggernaut pawed eagerly at the ground and Kormak stepped up into the broad saddle without hesitation.

  ‘Perfect,’ Valkia hissed.

  She allowed her wings to lower her to the ground so that she was standing before the mounted Kormak. His formidable bulk towered over her and in a former life she would have felt a tremor of uncertainty faced with such a warrior. He was bound to her more profoundly now than he ever had been in life however, and she was his queen.

  ‘You are my champion now,’ she said in a commanding tone. ‘You will serve my lord first and you will serve me second. You will bind yourself to this oath and you will not falter. You will spill much blood in Khorne’s name, Kormak.’

  The juggernaut reared up on its hind legs, a tower of burnished flesh and unstoppable killing might, and Kormak bellowed his bloodlust to the broken skies. The beast crashed to the ground and bent its knee to Valkia, presenting its rider. She laid the tip of Slaupnir against Kormak’s shoulder. ‘Rise, my brother,’ she said. ‘There is much to be done.’

  The consort of Khorne and her champion did not have an easy journey across the wastes, but the challenges were nothing that the warrior queen could not handle. Once she stepped outside of her lord’s realm, the daemon princess was what could only be called fair game. Every minion in service to the other gods of Chaos prowled the blasted plains, waiting for her.

  In life, nothing had frightened Valkia. She had known hesitation when facing enemies who called for a different strategy, but she had never been afraid beyond a glimmer of uncertainty. Her belief in her own ability and the devout faith in the Blood God had seen to that. Now, though, she was utterly fearless. Kormak, who was little more than an unstoppable golem marched wordlessly at her side, a loyal minion beyond a death that had come too soon.

  Valkia did not engage Kormak in conversation beyond commands to attack. Neither of them needed rest and the only sustenance that was required was the spilling of blood and the desperate attacks of lesser daemons and warped creatures provided that in plentiful supply.

  With a growing band of wild daemons, bloodthirsty beastmen and gibbering mutants at her back, the number of warbands choosing to oppose her slowly dwindled until only the most crazed, foolhardy or insane dared to meet her in battle. Blood and skulls marked their passing, a road of carnage that crossed and re-crossed the wastes as Valkia gathered ever more followers to her banner.

  The warriors of Khorne walked with purpose and focus. Occasionally, Valkia would take flight, spreading her wings and relishing the glory of soaring in the skies. The first time she swooped to slaughter an enemy, she did so with a ululating scream. Like an eagle, she drove downwards, Slaupnir at the ready. Her victim never stood a chance. She soon adapted to this method of attack, delighting in the gore that was inevitably spilled.

  She exulted in her new-found power and strength and as she and Kormak reached the mountains that bordered the plains, the trail of death that lay like scattered trees in her wake stood as testament to that.

  In the dusty hills at the feet of the bleak mountains the war band found its first tribe.

  They had never bothered with a collective name beyond ‘Chosen’. Worship of the Blood God was instilled in them from birth and the Blood Let, the first rites of a young warrior, happened at the age of four. They were savage and violent, given very much to fighting amongst themselves when there were no enemies to make war upon. Animalistic and vicious, they spoke few words.

  Like the Schwarzvolf, they put great store in the visions of their shamanic leaders, although these shamen were as far removed from the Godspeakers of the Schwarzvolf as could be. These men – and women – foreto
ld the future and read omens through bloody sacrifice. They would slaughter whatever unfortunate creature happened into their path first. Rats, hunting dogs, sometimes one of the tribe. The guts of the victim would be spilled and the shaman would read the signs in their entrails.

  They were quite mad, driven beyond sanity by the endless killing and slaughter and the mutations that blighted any who spent too long near the dusty green stone. It thrust up from the earth like rotten teeth, great, lambent shards that the tribe claimed hailed from what they called God’s Realm. It was not uncommon for them to be born with extra eyes, twisted limbs and bestial features. Some were so warped that they bore little resemblance to anything remotely human.

  This isolated tribe ran amok, slaughtering their way through the few others who settled on the north face of the mountain. But they never killed them all and they would leave many years between raids. Long enough for them to grow, even if just a little.

  The tribe never abandoned any but the weakest to their fate, however. For them, the ability to hold a weapon and butcher anything that opposed them was all that was needed in order to please their master and to live well. And by this token, by this self-imposed ideology, they lived exceptionally well.

  When the daemon princess descended from the heavens on wings of darkest night, her armour running with blood and with a warrior wearing the symbol-chased imagery of their god, they flung themselves to the ground at her feet, wailing and swearing allegiance to her before she even opened her mouth.

  Her coming had been foretold many years before by one of their shamen. The iconic and primitive etchings of the winged warrior queen adorned the walls of the mountain caves in which they made their homes. Long before Valkia had even died and been reborn, long before she had stepped beyond the mortal realm, they had worshipped her as a goddess. For them, her arrival heralded a new dawn.