The Valley of Life

Nästa drew her hand across her lips and nose as a blind man might do to recognize a face. The pain she felt as her finger caressed the split skin was intoxicating. She pulled her hand away and turned it over in the still air to see what destruction had been wrought upon her flesh. Dirt and blood infused forming muddy rivers between the calloused bumps on her palm. A single drop of crimson clung to her outstretched finger refusing to drop. She was reminded of the sacrificial cliff divers and their tedious ritual at the chasm’s edge. Nästa did not have the patience for religious rites, she preferred the ritual of battle. The tip of her spear expressed more in a single thrust than a priest could through a lifetime of study. She clenched her fist and watched her blood splatter against the barren earth below.

She knew her opponent by reputation. Her people called him Windfall because he moved as silent as air but came crashing down like thunder. She had never expected to face him but she was not afraid. One blow from the hilt of his sword was all it had taken for Nästa to understand him completely. He could have cut her down but instead he was toying with her like a beast with its prey. His stubborn bravado may have been well earned but it was now his greatest weakness. He did not fight with strength or skill, he fought with infamy. But his legend would not spare him from her blade.

All men had a weakness when it came to combat, especially one such as Windfall. Nästa knew what thoughts lay behind those lascivious eyes; he wanted her. Perhaps his desire came second to wanting to kill her but whether by thrust of the waist or thrust of the sword, it was clear he intended to overpower her. Nasta was unburdened by such intoxications. Her lust for battle was real but she did not suffer the inability to separate desire from action. She kept her eyes locked on his, it was the best measure of a warrior’s intent. As good as anyone could be at masking their next attack, the eyes knew it before the body. And there it was, a near imperceptible focus in his pupil. Nästa’s arm twitched and her spear erupted.

The drums of war echoed far throughout the sacred valley. The land was now stained with the blood of two peoples which no ideological differences could prevent from mixing. Spears clashed against shields, bones broke, and the cries of warriors were etched into the canyon walls beyond. The metallic gold of the aging sun melted into the clouds painting a vast empire across the sky.

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  The Valley of Life was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.