REAPER
Sarah Cawkwell

RED COATED EVERYTHING.
Red-churned mud was rendered thick and sticky from all the blood that had seeped into it during the long night of the battle's aftermath. The corpses that lay strewn across the field were tinged scarlet in the soft glow of the morning sun that rose above the trees. It was an ugly place; a place of death and destruction, a pit of gore and viscera that should never have been. The stench of excrement and the stale, copper stink of blood permeated every breath.
And yet…
Despite everything that had taken place on what had once been a flower-filled meadow, but which was now the last sodden resting place of countless hundreds, it was going to be a beautiful day. Already there was a delicious spring warmth in the air. The world went about its business as usual, heedless of what had taken place. In a few short hours, the sun would be above the scene, playing its part in the slow decomposition of the already rotting bodies. So even though there was horror on the ground, the world turned from spring to summer without heeding or caring for the slaughter.
For more than three days the battle had raged, the two opposing lines eventually coming together for the last skirmish a day before. The armies of the Empire had held their ground against the invading forces of Chaos with valiant actions. Fearless, that was what they had been. Fearless, brave and relentless. But for all that, everything had been in vain. Noble sacrifices proved pointless.
A flock of carrion birds wheeled in the sky above the battlefield, shrieking with delight at the feast laid out on the ground beneath them. Marauder or soldier, the birds had no preference. Food was food, meat was meat - and for them at least, the pickings were rich. The flocks had turned up a day past, enticed by the sounds of war and had settled in treetops and simply waited. Some of the birds, made bold by the lack of movement, darted downwards and began the long task of gorging themselves insensible.
The cavalry had been the first to fall. The muddier the field had become, the harder it had been for the horses to keep their balance. Many had slipped and fallen, throwing their riders clear. To get a terrified horse back on its feet, with the sounds of blackpowder guns firing all around whilst Chaos marauders attempted to hack its head from its neck, was no easy task and most of the animals died in fear. Their riders had not been far behind.
The army of Captain Kale von Kessel had been the last to fall and their leader the last to admit defeat. Even now, he lived - if only barely. The man puzzled even as he waited for death to finally drop its curtain on his life. How was it that he had survived? How was it that he lived whilst his men were dead?
Von Kessel lay on his back staring up at the blue sky. It seemed almost to be mocking him with its serenity. Had it not been for the foul smell of death that was everywhere and the fact that his right leg had long since parted company with the rest of his body, he could have simply been cloud-gazing.
With a supreme effort, von Kessel lifted his head to stare down at the lump of meat that had once been his leg. Ragged flesh and severed tendons hung uselessly from the stump at the end of his thigh and he felt nothing as he looked at it; both physically and metaphorically. There was just numbness. He knew categorically that he would die soon from the blood loss. He felt no sadness in this knowledge, just quiet certainty.
Noises began to filter in through the rushing sound of his own pain that filled his head to bursting. The cawing of crows as they circled. The sound of a light breeze stirring the trees. The rasp of his own breath in his chest… and occasionally the groan or weakened cry of another dying man.
The early promise of the dawn continued to torment the dying captain; the pink slivers of sky cutting through the pale blue were truly delightful. Such regrets, von Kessel thought. Such a waste that I never truly appreciated the staggering beauty of the world. He turned his head slightly so that his eyes fixed on the body of the barbarian by his side; the man whose axe had taken his leg. In return, von Kessel had taken his life. His sword was still embedded in the other man's gut.
Perhaps the world was not so beautiful after all.
Von Kessel had gone beyond pain. He was impervious to it now. Weak and barely able to move, he nonetheless dragged himself with considerable difficulty away from his enemy and towards a cluster of corpses wearing his troop's colours. His death was inevitable and there was a strange, childish part of him that wanted to die surrounded by his own brethren, not with his back up against the enemy.
A movement caught his attention and with supreme difficulty, he changed the position of his head once again. Perhaps all hope was not lost, he thought wildly and without really believing it. Perhaps someone was coming to find survivors. Perhaps he might yet live; see his beloved wife once again…
But the spark of hope was snuffed out in an instant. The movement belonged to one of the barbarian horde who, like him, still lived - if only barely. In a strange mirror of von Kessel's struggle to rejoin his fellows, the young barbarian - a boy, really - was trying to get to his own people as well.
Perhaps, a wild voice in von Kessel's mind suggested, he is like you. Perhaps he is afraid of dying amongst those who sought to kill him.
Von Kessel, a rugged, hard-hitting man who was well into his early forties, felt a sudden flare of empathy for the youth. His impending death was providing him with a clarity of thought and understanding of the human condition that he had never possessed in life.
Above him the morning sky, blue and cloudless, was darkening and the captain rolled over with some difficulty to stare upwards. What he saw there chilled his blood to the marrow and he suddenly craved the ability to get to his feet and flee. Descending from the heavens, borne on wings of darkest night was a sight so terrifying that von Kessel cried out in fear.
The form was almost exaggerated in its femininity; the curve of the breasts and hips so obvious that nobody could be under any illusion as to the gender of the thing. But any resemblance to living women ended there. In the bright sunlight, it was hard to make out specific features but in his increasingly feverish state, von Kessel got the hint of cold, cruel beauty. Eyes that glowed with an unnatural inner fire scoured the battlefield with insatiable hunger.
A daemon. Von Kessel automatically reached for his sword, but then he recalled that it was embedded in the guts of his enemy; the crazed axe-wielding barbarian who had taken his leg. His aimless crawling had taken him far from the safety of its hilt. He kept his eyes fixed on the daemonic woman as her hooved feet touched down with grace on the battlefield. She was so close to him that he could detect her scent. It was strangely pleasant; a musky mix of decay that put him in mind of a rose arbour in its dying days. Horns curled from the side of her head and as he looked at her she turned her head from profile to meet his gaze full on.
A shock of recognition thrilled through his dying body as he looked up into the fathomless depths of her eyes. Recognition, revulsion and a strange almost compulsive attraction. She was a daemon, yes. But she was beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
Von Kessel's ragged breath caught in his throat and a slow smile twisted the daemon woman's lips. She took three prowling, feline steps towards him and then paused at the sound of a weak voice from the other side of the battlefield.
'My queen!'
The tip of the daemon's tongue flickered out, snake-like, and ran the length of her lower lip. The smile did not leave her face as she slowly turned her head to the source of the voice. The boy, the northman, had propped himself up on his elbows, one hand outstretched towards her.
'My queen!'
The weak cry came again and von Kessel did not know whether to be grateful or disappointed that she moved away from him. He knew who she was. He had known the moment he saw her descend from the skies. Somehow, he had always known. There had been legends and stories told of the fell northern queen who had been reborn and moulded into a form more pleasing to the god of blood and death. A consort worthy of the god known to the warriors of the north as Kharneth.
Valkia the Bloody.
She prowled the battlefield towards the fallen boy and it was then and only then that von Kessel realised that every sound had stilled. There was no caw of crows, no birdsong and no sound of the wind in the trees. Only the occasional moan of a dying warrior and the clear, crystal tones of Valkia as she spoke to the youth.
'Who are you who dare speak my name in this place?' Von Kessel was startled at the pitch of the daemon princess's voice. He had expected such a creature to speak with a low growl. But her voice was musical and melodic; hypnotic even. He could no longer put trust in his senses. He had seen enough death and dying to know that he was likely delirious from blood loss. A cawing raven would have seemed tuneful to him. The captain strained to hear the boy's reply but he was too far away. He wanted to know what passed between the pair of them. It was some kind of morbid fascination.
With slow, painful effort, he dragged himself forward on his elbows, the bloodied stump of his leg trailing in the mud beneath him.
'Why do you feel you have earned my master's blessing?' The warrior queen had spread her wings once again and turned with supreme indifference to run a taloned fingernail down the scaled length of one of them in a demonstration of boredom. The sight was faintly reminiscent of a preening bird.
Closer. Closer still.
Von Kessel dragged himself painfully another few inches until he could just make out the answering voice. The boy sounded on the verge of death and von Kessel had seen enough of those to recognise the sound. This close, he could see the horrendous belly wound that the youth had sustained and despite the fact that the barbarian was his enemy, the captain marvelled at the tenacity of a warrior who could survive as long as the young man obviously had.
'I have fought in his name,' the boy croaked, his voice straining. There was a faint gargle in his words that suggested his lungs were filled with blood. His accent was thick, but he spoke the language of the Empire, something that startled von Kessel even more than the fact the youth still lived. 'Every time my blade struck, I dedicated the blow to him.'
'There are others here who did that… and more.' Valkia raised one of her cloven-hooved legs and prodded at a corpse with her foot. The body rolled over; a horrific thing with a skull cleaved almost in two. It was barely recognisable but wore the armour of the Empire. Von Kessel drew in a sharp intake of breath that made her glance up at him. Her beautiful face spread in a smile, but she returned her attention to the boy who was coughing weakly.
'My master seeks champions, boy,' she said eventually. She moved slightly away from him to turn over the corpses of more fallen warriors. Empire and barbarian, all had died where they had fallen and the muddy ground was a carpet of mismatched armour and furs. Strange, von Kessel thought, that death brings such unity. 'Champions who can fight in his name. You are fit for nothing but your own funeral.'
'I have always served…'
'Always? You are an infant.' She turned her attention back to the boy. 'A mere child. A sapling like you could not possibly hope to draw the attention of my master.'
'Give me your blessing, my queen, and I will fight beyond death.' The boy dissolved into a coughing fit and spat up great gobbets of blood and what von Kessel thought could possibly be part of his own gullet.
'You do not know what it is that you offer me, whelp.' She drove the end of her spear through the chest of a dying barbarian and watched with affected disinterest as his ribcage caved in.
'I know. I understand what it will cost, my queen. And I lived only to serve.' He raised his head in an act of supreme defiance against his imminent death.
The daemon princess cocked her head on one side in a thoughtful gesture and then drew her wings into her back. She leaped with unerring grace between the corpses until she was before the boy again and she crouched before him.
'Then show me what you can do,' she said. She put out a hand and the talon of her middle finger pierced the soft skin at the boy's temple. He screamed weakly and struggled briefly. The daemon princess closed her eyes and inhaled the glorious smell of fear with a ravenous appetite. Von Kessel could do nothing but watch as the daemon princess crouched before the barbarian, her talon piercing the boy's brain. There was a faintly beatific expression on her face as she somehow extracted what she was looking for.
The boy shuddered one final time and his body ceased movement. Withdrawing her finger, Valkia curled her hand into a fist. The boy slumped face forward into the mud, his heart finally stilled. He had asked her for her blessing and the daemon bitch had given him his death.
'And you, warrior of the Empire? Are you deserving of a place at my master's side?'
The fact that she was speaking to him did not register until the moment her hand swooped towards him. He felt a brief and piercing agony, then a rush of euphoria and finally a moment of complete resignation.
And then he remembered.

KALE VON KESSEL had seen his first battle at the age of seventeen and no two had ever been the same. He had fought across many different terrains and in many different weather conditions. He had fought countless different enemies: beastmen, barbarians and green-skinned orcs and goblins. Each had their comparative strengths and weaknesses and he had always found the barbarian men of the north to be the most challenging. Facing orcs and other creatures not born of woman was little more than fighting animals. To face your fellow man; to stand up against strategies that could even outclass your own… that was a challenge.
Blood was spattered up his breastplate as he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly in one hand. He was defending himself whilst lashing out with the kite shield strapped to his left arm. The heavy steel gave him a second weapon which was every bit as lethal a weapon as the finely honed blade that the captain fought with and more than one of the barbarians fell beneath its onslaught, their skulls caved in or their jaws smashed by the force of impact.
The battle had started just past dawn and had raged for a full two hours. Neither side had fielded more warriors than the other, but the Empire infantry were far more structured. They had held their line for the greater part of those two hours against the constant barrage of barbarian skirmishers. Von Kessel himself had been a part of the front line; the central lynchpin of the shield wall.
Blades flashed in the morning sunlight as they were brought to bear; from the well-tended and razor-sharp swords of von Kessel's own unit to the dulled edges of the battle-axes so favoured by the barbarians. The silence of the morning had quickly given way to the sounds of battle. The ring of steel and the shouts and cries of the warriors as they engaged. Fierce, ululating battle shouts gave way to screams of incomparable agony. The distant boom of the cannons being managed by the gunnery teams was the one thing that gave the Empire soldiers the true advantage on the field. But the miracle of the ballistic support brought with it its own problems. In a massed battle, firing on the enemy was no precision art. As a consequence, the gunnery crews were killing and maiming Empire men along with the barbarians.
Von Kessel and his loyal men held the shield wall against countless odds, fierce and tenacious. The captain's helm had been knocked clear of his head some time ago and he shouted out orders with practised ease. Men fell either side of him, but still he held his ground, fighting against those who dared encroach into the Empire. He sang out in Sigmar's name as he slew the enemy, his sword cutting a bloody path through them.
'I must admit, you are very bold,' came a whispering voice just behind his right shoulder. 'A great killer,' Von Kessel knew it immediately for who it was and he didn't turn his head, but he responded regardless.
'This is just a memory. I know how it ends and so do you. What is the point of this?' He spoke with anger; fuelled more by the memory of battle rage than by his own fury. He knew that in the material realm he was lying on the field of a great battle. He knew that he was dying.
'The point, my delicious morsel, is this.' Slinking her way past him, Valkia moved to stand in the line with the enemy. None of them seemed to notice her presence and the captain lowered his sword, unwilling to resume a fight that he knew on some unconscious level was not even real.
The daemon turned to face von Kessel and smiled. The expression demonstrated her daemonic fangs perfectly and he recoiled from the sight of them. She threw out an arm with an expressive gesture. 'You are fighting against my people. The barbarian men and women of the Northern Wastes. You kill indiscriminately and you do not even notice the faces of those you slay.'
'They are my enemy. Of course I do not.'
'These are, yes. But what about them?' Valkia stepped away from the barbarians and stood face-to-face with von Kessel. She pointed downwards, all the while holding his eyes in her own. 'In your hunger to slay, you kill any and all who present themselves to you. See?'
Horror in the pit of his stomach at what he might see if he followed her pointing finger, von Kessel slowly lowered his head. Two of his own men lay dead at his feet. He shook his head.
'They were killed by the enemy,' he said with certainty. Valkia bit her lower lip and resumed her predator's smile. She shook her head slowly and dropped to a crouch, her wings folding around her like a cocoon. She took the limp, lifeless hand of one of the two soldiers.
'This one, killed by you when he positioned himself between you and your prey. You shouted at him to get out of your way… Do you remember?'
Mannheim, move! Get out of my way before I…
Von Kessel sucked in a sharp intake of breath. He knew how that sentence was going to end but he could not believe that he was going to commit the unforgivable act… but the memory within the memory came anyway.
…run you through!
Mannheim was caught in battle, concentrating desperately on his own skirmish and could not comply. Von Kessel did not care. He threw back his head like some kind of animal, roaring in unadulterated rage. The soldier was directly between him and his victim and so he resorted to the simplest means to resolve both issues. The length of his blade pierced through first Mannheim's body and then that of his enemy. He withdrew the sword, now slick with blood and pressed forwards…
'No…' Von Kessel felt sick to his stomach at the realisation. He forced himself to focus; to remember that this was all some near-death induced hallucination. His body felt real enough, but he was standing. Somewhere, he told himself, somewhere far away, he was lying on the ground. He was lying there, barely able to move and a leg forever lost…
He found a measure of courage to speak to the daemon. 'You are distorting this. Making it appear that I…'
'You killed him.' Valkia let go of the dead soldier's arm and reached to push the other body over on its back. The sightless eyes of his squad sergeant looked up at him and he stared back down into them. 'You killed him. And you bathed in the moment of his death. You drank it in like a sweet summer breeze.'
Von Kessel opened his mouth as though he would deny it, but no sound would come. Relentless in her attack, Valkia said nothing, but merely dredged other memories.
What have you done, captain?
Are you questioning me? Get out of my way.
Sir, you are unfit to command. Stand down, Captain von Kessel, before I make you.
You? Make me?
'Enough!' Von Kessel dropped the phantom blade that he wielded in his hand and covered his face with his arms. He had fallen to fighting his own men, unable to contain the rage and bloodlust he had felt. He had killed and killed and killed and he had reached a point where it no longer mattered who tasted his blade. He just wanted to savour that moment that their warm blood splashed over his hand, relish the extinguishing of the light in their eyes… there was such glory in the release of another's vitality.
'You enjoy killing for killing's sake, Kale von Kessel,' purred Valkia in his ear. 'That is no bad thing. Anyone can wield a sword. Any fool can take up arms, but only a true warrior can take a life and not feel a morsel of regret. Only one whose heart pumps the blood of a champion can cut down any and all in his path for his own gratification.'
Her voice was hypnotic and he continued to cower behind his arms, refusing to look upon the sordid truth of what he was and what he had become. An animal. A beast no better or more deserving than the barbarians he had been sworn to battle against. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled hotly down his cheeks as he was forced to face the bare, naked truth. The horror of what he was.
'The boy,' said Valkia in that same faintly distant tone. 'The child from the north. He believes himself to be a worthy champion of my master because he chose to cut down others with every intention of spilling blood. You, though… once you started… once you felt the thrill of your blade slide through ribs, pierce internal organs…'
She was so close to him that he could feel the breath of her words on his neck and he shuddered involuntarily at her proximity. She was a foul creature of the Chaos Wastes and every instinct in his dying body shrieked that he must end her existence.
'You enjoyed killing, didn't you, my sweet?'
A sob tore from his throat and he bent to pick up the sword and strike, but she brought her hoof down with nonchalant ease and shook her head. She reached out and caught his chin in her hand, forcing him to look up at her. His face was pale and tear-streaked; his misery having worked tracks through the mud. She twisted his chin to look at him this way and that.
'You are not remarkable,' she said. 'You are certainly not the first of your kind who has given themselves over to the unadulterated worship of my master without even realising it and I promise you that you will not be the last.'
'I worship no Dark Gods,' whispered Kale von Kessel and even as he said it, he wondered exactly who it was that he was trying to convince. 'I am a servant of the Empire and I will die before I—'
Valkia gave a short laugh. 'Save your grandiose words. They are hollow and meaningless.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Even if you mean them. You are dead anyway.' She released his chin, but not before giving his face a rough shake. 'So why attempt such pathetic denial? You could release your grip on this life - such a tentative, trembling grip - and you could be reborn. You would become my master's child and you would be mine to command.' She swung her head in a shake, her hair whipping outwards. Her face twisted into a sneer.
Very slowly, her wings began to unfurl. 'But still, this staunch denial. I was clearly wrong. You are not worthy of such a blessing. My lord and master seeks those who would fight in his name for eternity.' At full span, her wings were curiously beautiful; the membrane seeming to his failing eyesight to be more akin to the gauzy fineness of a butterfly and not the leathery monstrosities that he had first perceived. Despite his predicament, von Kessel felt once again that strange mix of attraction and repulsion. The wings flickered lazily, iridescent colours in the morning sun, and she took a step back from him ready to leave. Somewhere far beyond, somewhere in the mortal realm that was at one side of the precipice upon which he now balanced, he felt the sensation of her probing fingers being withdrawn from his head.
He realised that she must have dragged him to a standing position because he felt his remaining leg buckle beneath him and he slumped back to the ground, pitching onto his belly. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to lift his head from the ground.
'Wait.'
Slowly, agonisingly so, von Kessel stretched out his hand to her. Crusted blood and mud hid most of the skin beneath. He reached for her, yearning for her touch again. 'Wait. Please.'
Valkia turned her head from the skies to look down at the dying captain again. A mysterious smile touched her lips. No words left her mouth, but her head tilted quizzically, an unspoken invitation for him to speak.
Kale von Kessel could feel the fading ebb of his own heartbeat fluttering like a trapped moth in his chest. It was as though his life was measured in uneven seconds. Every thump of his weak pulse was another moment, another opportunity to say what he must. The daemon woman's form was beginning to blur as tears of frustration, pain and some other unfamiliar emotion welled in his eyes. From a place deep in his gut, he found the last vestiges of his strength.
'I always thought we were all this way in war,' he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. 'I never thought anything of the way I acted. But… you are right. I crossed a line once, ten years ago now, and I never truly found the way back.' Von Kessel stopped speaking and coughed weakly, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He sucked in breath after painful breath, almost hyperventilating with the need to get air into his lungs. He had long thrown away the opportunity for redemption. Only now did he accept it.
Valkia drew her wings lazily back in and stepped forward. She crouched down so that she might better hear the unfortunate man's final confession. He looked up at her and wondered how he could ever have found such a creature repulsive. She was beautiful. A red angel sent to reap his tortured soul, grant him ultimate release and give him the prize he had hungered for.
'I want…'
Scrambled and broken images raced through his mind. The face of his wife, her beauty long since faded and replaced by the pinched tiredness and aching loneliness that was the lot of a soldier's wife. The comrades he had slain in his berserker rage. And through it all came her face. That of the consort of a dark god whose existence he had always denied.
But he knew now that he could deny it no longer.
'I will serve,' he gasped out.
'Why?'
It was not a question he had been anticipating, but the answer reached his lips in an instant as though he had merely been waiting for the chance to say it. 'I want to spill blood,' he whispered. 'Blood… for the… Blood God.' His eyes met hers and an unholy ecstasy sent his body into paroxysms of sheer rapture.
'Yes, my sweet,' she agreed. 'Yes. You please me.' She put her hooved foot in the small of his back, pressing him firmly against the sodden earth and stilling his convulsions. Raising her spear, which glinted in a ray of light, she brought the blade down with near-casual ease against the back of the soldier's exposed neck. It ate through the skin and bone with a supernatural ease, separating the head from the body instantly. Rich, scarlet blood oozed from the ragged edges of the corpse's neck and seeped into the mud. The body gave two more violent jerking spasms and then ceased to move.
Leaning down, Valkia took up von Kessel's head by the hair. She turned it until the gruesome thing, a face frozen in ecstasy, was looking directly at her. She kissed it upon the bloodied lips.
'Not one prize this day, but two,' she said as she moved to take the head of the young barbarian. Two skulls for her master's throne and two more eternally stained souls whose rebirth would grant them the champion's opportunity to spill blood in his name forever. The Blood God got what he wanted and so did the mortals. There were always winners in this endless game.
Her prizes claimed, she spread her wings and soared from the charnel remains of the battlefield. The sun, risen now to its zenith, blazed in a cloudless sky, unmoved and uncaring of all that had transpired. The humans strewn across the meadow were nothing more than corn stalks felled by the scythes of battle. Valkia the Skull Queen had merely reaped the bountiful harvest of war.