Return of the Ancients

The king sat astride his armoured horse, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he looked out across the bloody plain below him. Broken bodies and armour were strewn over the entire field, and the smell caused him to bare his teeth and growl deep in his broad chest. He turned to an approaching warrior, and nodded for him to speak.

‘No survivors, sire.’

The king turned back to the field with sad eyes. ‘I know; I could already sense it.’

He snorted as if to expel the sickening odour of death, and shook his head in disbelief. ‘But how? Two hundred of our mightiest warriors cut down. How does that happen? They wouldn’t dare to attack us in broad daylight – they’re nothing but assassins, cutters of throats in the dark.’ He turned to the warrior once again. ‘But if not them, then who – who would dare it . . . who
could
dare it?’

‘Sire!’

The king spurred the horse to where another figure crouched down looking intently at something in the mud. He pointed and moved his gauntleted hand over the shape, and then looked up to the king.

‘A print – a Slinker, I think . . . but the size. Impossible.’

The king stared at the shape in huge print with its knife-like claws, then looked away towards the horizon. ‘I have heard legends of the giants from the dark lands.’ He looked around at the carnage. ‘Whoever did this did not just want to win the day, but wanted to grind us to dust. This was nothing but bloody savagery.’

He looked up at the sky, noting the position of the sun – mid morning and the heat was rising. They needed to get their fallen below ground before the scavengers came. He felt exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. It was not his age or his armour, but the feeling of impending danger that seemed to drag the strength from his frame. He had fought many wars, but none had caused the sense of disquiet that he now felt deep inside his chest.

Another warrior plodded through the mud and stopped to look up at the king, his mouth working, but no words came.

‘What is it?’

‘Sire, some . . .’

The king waited for a few more seconds. ‘Speak, Karnak. Fear nothing.’

The warrior drew in a breath. ‘Some of the bodies . . . have been . . . partially eaten.’

The king lowered his head and shut his eyes. He nodded slowly. ‘May Odin give us strength and wisdom, for I fear a war like no other comes to Valkeryn.’ He turned to the warrior. ‘See that the princess is brought in from the forest.’

Karnak tilted his head. ‘And if she won’t come? Last time she put an arrow into a warrior’s leg.’

The king spun around on him. ‘Tell her it’s the king’s order. That girl needs to start behaving more like a royal charge, and spend less time daydreaming or testing her arm in the forests.’

He dropped the horse’s reins and reached up to lift the silver helmet from his head. He ran one hand up through his hair, and looked around, scanning the ridge.

The breath caught in his throat – a silhouette on the rise.
It could not be
. . . He blinked and tried to speak, but no words came. All he could do was lift his arm to point. At last he found his voice. ‘Have I gone mad? Karnak, do you see?’

The tall warrior followed his gaze and then frowned in bewilderment. ‘Then I am also mad, sire. I see, but it is impossible – they are a myth.’

The sun dropped a little lower and the silhouette disappeared. The king dropped his hand, and nodded. ‘All things are possible in these darkening days.’

‘Shall we go after it, sire?’

‘No. Events will unfold as they are meant to.’ He turned to the warrior. ‘And so, the prophecy begins.’

Arn ran out to the waiting bus. His large dog bounded beside him, trying to leap up and catch the loose cords of his backpack that flapped as he ran. He turned to the dog. ‘No Jess, stay here – sit.’

The big black shepherd sat down hard, struggling to obey the command. ‘Go home, girl. See you soon.’

He leapt up onto the bus – hopefully for one of the last times, considering his dad had agreed to match him dollar for dollar when he went new car shopping this weekend. Visions of girls fighting to be the one to sit next to him in his new SUV were quickly replaced by the smiling face of just one. Who was he kidding? There’d only ever be one girl for him.

The doors groaned shut behind him, and the bus lumbered away from the kerb. He flopped into a seat and turned to the boy next to him. ‘Wazzup?’

Arnold Singer, Arn to his friends, and the only Native American at Naperville High, had dropped down next to his best friend, Edward Lin, who had his head buried in a comic book. Arn looked over Edward’s shoulder at the coloured panels, catching sight of a superhero lifting a car in one square and then bringing it down on his foe’s head in another.

‘At your age, don’t you ever get bored with that stuff? I mean, how smart is that guy anyway? Every single time, he solves his problems by braining someone – why can’t he outsmart them for once? I mean, how intelligent is he?’

Edward spoke without taking his eyes off the comic. ‘HunterMan outsmart them? Sure, maybe he should give them a good talking to . . . or maybe he could hand out pamphlets about anger management or how we should eat more fibre – that’d be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?’

He turned to peer at Arn over the top of his glasses. ‘You know, Arn, I’m the smartest kid in our class – straight A’s all the way, and you know what I get for that? Every week, I get smashed by the meatheads, and laughed at by your make-believe girlfriend and her gang of mutant boob monsters. Oh yeah, did I tell you that I suck at gym and track? So comics like this are for people like me, who would just once like to be able to solve their own problems like this dude does.’