The Last Valkyrie by Keith Dumble

Author:Keith Dumble
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: strong female lead, norse mythology fantasy, fantasy book series, fantasy action and adventure, dark fantasy series, dark fantasy serial, fantasy female lead, fantasy woman warrior, magic and science fantasy
Publisher: Keith Dumble

SIX

SMOKE CURLED TO meet a grey dawn sky. The village lay nestled in a low valley, a tributary of the Serpent River threading through the modest dwellings, a water wheel creaking as it turned. From the edge of the Drakenwood, the place looked idyllic, a pastoral sanctuary.

'I find it hard to believe a warrior might live there,' said Brunhild. 'You are certain we are in the right place?'

'Prowess in battle is only one of many skills.' Slotti stood in the shadows, his bark-like skin allowing him to blend amongst the trees without the need for magic. 'I am certain.'

'And you will stay here, on the edge of the forest?'

'Escaping from the North Road has taken much from me.' The vaetir leaned against a thick trunk. 'If I am discovered, I will be unable to defend myself. I do not want my bones to crack and spit on an Imaginarium pyre.'

'I understand.' The thought of facing what she imagined at worst would be a group of villagers armed with farm tools troubled Brunhild little. 'You do not know who exactly I am looking for?'

'I do not. Only that they are there. You shall know them when you find them.' He placed his hand over his chest. 'You shall know here.'

'And this hooded one you spoke of?'

'You must be on your guard, that is all I know.'

'I always am.'

'That is a good way to be. These days.'

'I will not be long. I shall return with this other.'

Brunhild adjusted the straps on her gauntlets. The polished metal glinted in the grey light. She checked her greaves, made of the same shining metal. Supple yet strong, hulder in origin. The breastplate, engraved with the Valkyr crest: a pair of wings, spread above a crossed spear and greatsword. Her chainmail beneath, the mesh fine and intricately woven to provide a balance of movement and protection. Her helm, its curves sweeping either side of her face, tapering to twin points, fashioned to resemble wings. Her face was exposed; the helm was held in place by a thin metal circlet across her crown, allowing her yellow braids to hang free.

Her bow was strung across her body, her sword in its scabbard against her thigh. She had not been allowed to take the spear when she had been banished from Telmar's Hold. The ceremonial weapon was, Grebe had told her, sacrilegious, its ability to burst into flame heretical, a relic of the old ways. And although he had told her it had been confiscated and would likely be destroyed, Brunhild had suspected it would make its way into Kaspar's inquisitive hands, his mind eager to discover its secrets.

She gripped the pommel of her sword, seeking strength from the warm metal. She felt an inner power, calm and strong. Perhaps she was what the Imaginarium had accused her of: a relic, a shadow of a an age passing into legend. Perhaps she was wrong to be striding towards the village now, in search of an unknown companion to join her in what seemed a hopeless battle.

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