The Last Valkyrie: 1: The Long Walk

By Keith Dumble

The world is changing. The old magic is fading, declared as heresy by the Imaginarium and the unstoppable power of their machines.

Ever since she could first wield a sword, Brunhild Helstrom has been devoted to protecting King Harald – a king whose head now sits on a spike outside the palace walls. Now, sentenced to an exile which can only result in a slow and lingering death, Brunhild prepares to turn her back on everything she has known, and take The Long Walk to join her ancestors in the Great Hall.

With the metal warriors of the Iron Legion and the smouldering pyres of the dead behind her, Brunhild is resigned to her fate — until she learns of another path. A chance for justice. For vengeance.

A path which only one may tread — The Last Valkyrie.

The Long Walk is the first episode of an epic dark fantasy serial, set in a land where magic and science are poised to clash in an apocalyptic struggle which will change the world forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Dumble
• Release date: Mar 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311963871

Keith Dumble

I am a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland.I write history, mystery and speculative fiction, focusing on the sci-fi and fantasy genres. As an indie author, I regularly publish short stories, serials, novellas and longer works of fiction on the main e-book platforms.

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The Last Valkyrie

1: The Long Walk

by Keith Dumble

Copyright © 2015 by Keith Dumble. All rights reserved.

Cover copyright © 2015 by Keith Dumble.

www.keithdumble.com

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

Thank you for purchasing and supporting my work. If you have enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review wherever you bought this book.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THE LAST VALKYRIE

ONE

THE RISING SUN painted everything in a golden glow — including the severed head of King Harald.

It bloomed crimson on the stake like a terrible flower, set higher than the rest. As a warning to the others, the few who still lived. A warning to renounce The Word, to accept the credo, or share the same fate.

A warning which Brunhild had chosen to ignore.

She turned from the window, feeling the warmth on her shoulders. The sun gilded the rough walls of her cell, her shadow a stark black figure on the stones. She raised her arms above her head, placed her palms together, then lowered her hands to her chest. A gesture of respect, a focusing of her strength. She would need every grain of that for what lay ahead.

Her armour glinted on the bed, a sleeping silver creature. Like one of the constructed warriors of the Iron Legion. Though she had never seen one herself, she had heard the tavern talk and the traveller's tales: of how the metal warriors were relentless, cutting down all in their path with brutal efficiency. One scarred refugee in The Black Unicorn had spoken of their sightless eyes, their identical features moulded into mocking smiles that struck terror into all who looked at them. Features which were, according to the stories, sculpted into the likeness of Nikolas Kaspar. Their creator.

Brunhild imagined them now, the metal army marching through the streets of the city below. Planting yet more crimson flowers amongst those which had sprouted in front of the palace, turning the courtyard from a place of ceremony and celebration into a rotting field of death.

She had, unlike many, been given a choice. As a mark of respect for her lineage, the magister had told her. She could tell his words had been twisted from their true meaning, moulded until they were something he could stomach. What Grebe had meant, Brunhild suspected, was her chance of life had been given not out of any deference to her ancestry, but out of fear.

Fear that by killing Brunhild, the Imaginarium would bring down the wrath of heaven upon them, borne on silver wings. Fear that by killing the last of the Valkyr, revenge would be swift and deadly.

Fear which Brunhild knew was based on nothing.

For whilst it was true that she was the last of her line, there was no celestial army of her forebears waiting above the clouds, lances poised to strike retribution on any who slighted The Word. The stories of a shimmering host of Valkyr shieldmaidens were just that — tales, ringing hollow with their falsehood.

That did not alter the fact she was one of them, however. And whilst her ancestors feasted for eternity in the Great Hall, far from the earthly plane, the power within Brunhild was real. And it was that terrible fury which burned within her which the Imaginarium truly feared. Not the children's tales and the legends, but the knowledge that if they were to try and take her, Brunhild would slay a hundred or more before yielding.

Before even drawing her sword.

__________

'It is time.' Grebe spread his hands, apologetic. The magister wore his formal robes, studded with regalia and medals. Awards earned, not stolen like those of his colleagues in the senate. His bald scalp was sheened with sweat; his dark eyes buried amidst pink rolls of flesh.

Brunhild had also dressed formally, strapping on her armour. It felt like a second skin, light and close-fitting. It had served her well in her years of service to King Harald; each notch and gouge on the metal a memorial to a fallen foe. Today, however, she faced an enemy no armour could defend against.

'Wit the exception of the spear, your weapons will be given to you at the gate.' Grebe looked uncomfortable, as if he longed to be elsewhere. As head magister, he served as regent in Harald's absence. He would be facing a thankless day, supplicating himself before the occupying forces in an attempt to spare as many of the surviving citizens of Telmar's Hold as he could. Brunhild did not envy him the task.

'You are certain of this?' She stood, arranging her golden braids either side of her helm. 'You will stay?'

'I have little choice. If I am to survive. If others are to live.'

The Imaginarium forces had sealed the gates, each guarded by a phalanx of the soulless metal soldiers. No-one was allowed in — or out — without the express orders of Kaspar himself. The city was a tomb, waiting for its final occupant to die.

They walked close together, descending the stone staircase which coiled down from