Return of the Ancients (14 page)

The king rose to his feet. ‘I am Grimvaldr, son of Grimkell, and bloodline of the mighty Fenrir himself.’ He glanced again at his daughter. ‘And I think we are all prone to being overly quick to speak our minds. But we are also a good judge of noble character, and we see that in you, young Man-kind.’

His expression grew dark. ‘I saw you days ago on the ridge above the killing fields. I thought you were a vision at first, an omen. Your name itself, Arnoddr-Sigarr, means
bringer of victory
to us.’

The king sat back down, and continued to study his guest. ‘And perhaps you
are
an omen. I shall grant you shelter among us, but know that soon all of Valkeryn may be called upon to fight.’ He looked hard at Arn. ‘Will you fight with us, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’

Arn wanted to say
yes
immediately, but the closest he had ever come to fighting was arguing in the canteen line with Edward over the last piece of pie. In Valkeryn, fighting meant something frighteningly real – something bloody, brutal and deadly.

‘I’m not sure how to fight . . . but I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’ It was the best he could offer.

Eilif stepped up beside the king and whispered to him. He snorted, then nodded. She walked quickly towards Arn, reaching into the folds of her cloak, and removed a small silver dagger, which she offered to him.

‘We can teach you to fight, Arnoddr, but it helps to have a weapon.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Arn said – and it was. Just under a foot in length and of highly polished silver, the familiar snarling wolf with its red eyes was moulded into the pommel. Arn slid it into his empty scabbard and leaned towards her to whisper, ‘Guess I’m not a risk anymore.’

‘You never were to me.’ She smiled and dipped her head, looking up at him from under her ash silver brows. Turning, she bowed to Grimvaldr, and then stepped back up behind him.

Grimvaldr leaned forward in his large throne, the wood creaking under his weight.

‘Good – all help is needed in these dark times. But for one who says he cannot fight, I have been told you seem to have a mighty arm. Perhaps it just needs to be trained,
eh,
Andrejk?’

Across the hall, a Wolfen stepped forward, grinning. Part of his forehead was shaved, and stitches zippered a long wound. Under his arm he carried his helmet, and he lifted it, and looked at it briefly, before turning it around for the king and Arn to see.

‘There were more dangers in the jormungandr hole than we expected.’ The warrior’s grin broadened.

Arn saw the huge dent in the steel, matching the position of the scar on the warrior’s head. He remembered lashing out in the cave, when he thought he was being attacked.
Oh crap
, he thought.

‘I saw stars for two days.’ Andrejk didn’t seem angry with him at all.

The other Wolfen laughed, and one next to Andrejk slapped him on the shoulder.

‘There was nothing inside that thick skull to damage.’ He slapped Andrejk’s shoulder again.

The king turned back to Arn. ‘With such an arm, perhaps we should be grateful that you have chosen to help us.’ He stood and waved towards the far end of the room. ‘Come, dine with us. I’m sure you have more questions . . . as do we. In this kingdom, food and conversation always go hand in hand.’

The doors at the end of the hall were thrown open and the small crowd moved towards it. Arn stood watching for a moment, unsure what he should do, until he felt a tug on his arm. Looking down, he saw the young Wolfen who had been standing just slightly behind Eilif and the queen. His eyes were still very round.

‘You can talk. I thought you were only a story made up by my father and Balthazar.’ He let go of Arn’s forearm and banged a small fist on his chest. ‘I’m Grimson, son of Grimvaldr.’

Arn laughed and sank to one knee, to look him in the eye. He held out his hand.

‘And I am Arnold Singer . . .
ah
, son of Johnson Singer. My friends call me Arn.’

The young Wolfen looked at the hand for a second or two, seeming unsure what to do with it. Arn decided to help and reached out to grab Grimson’s hand and shake it.

‘Nice to meet you, Grimson.’ Arn shook the small hand some more. ‘And this is how
my
people greet each other.’

Grimson smiled and kept pumping Arn’s hand up and down, looking back and forth from it, to Arn, with great amusement. After a moment, he stopped and turned Arn’s hand over in his, to study it.

‘You aren’t totally hairless, are you? I can feel some hairs there.’ He looked up. ‘Will they get thicker as you get older?’

Arn shrugged. ‘Yes, but not ever as thick as your magnificent fur. In fact, as I get older, I may lose some of the hair on my head.’

Grimson looked at the top of Arn’s head and pulled a face. ‘Yuck.’

Arn laughed again. ‘Thank heavens for hats.’

‘Your eyes are so black. Are they hard to see out of?’

The queen called to her son. Grimson let go of Arn’s hand, and on his jacket Arn noticed the same silver, snarling wolf crest. It was also the same image pressed onto the ring that Eilif had given him. He felt his pocket – it was still there. He’d return it later, when he saw her again.

As Arn walked beside the youth, he pointed to the crest. ‘What does this mean? Is it your . . .
ahh
, house badge?’

Grimson looked shocked. ‘Of course – it is the crest of the house of Grimvaldr. The royal crest.’

Arn nodded.
You have friends in high places
, he remembered Birna telling him.

Grimson stopped and pointed to Arn’s chest. ‘You wear it because you saved Eilif’s life. And for that, you are under Grimvaldr’s protection.’

He motioned Arn closer, who leaned down expecting the young Wolfen to whisper something to him. Instead, Grimson reached up and touched his cheek, then his nose, pinching it.

‘
Ouch!
’

Grimson ignored him and lifted Arn’s upper lip to peer at his teeth.

‘Loki’s beard! Everything is so small. How do you fit food in there?’

Arn laughed. ‘We cut it into small pieces first.’

Grimson looked shocked at the concept. ‘I can’t wait to see that . . . Arn. You can be seated next to me. Let’s go; I starve.’ He took Arn’s forearm again, and led him towards the open double doors.

Orcalion watched the execution with pitiless eyes. The Panterran soldiers who had allowed the prisoners to escape were quickly beheaded, and the bodies would be dragged deep into the forest for the night beasts to tear to shreds. Incompetence was not tolerated among Panterran warriors.

Time was growing short, and the Lygon were becoming harder to control. Their common ancestry bound them to the Panterran – but only loosely. The monstrous brutes were unpredictable, and could easily turn against them if their lust for carnage wasn’t sated.

He looked down at the bloody bag at his feet. The Wolfen scouts they captured had refused to talk – not a single word or scream of pain. He knew he had hurt them; he had taken his time. He narrowed his yellow eyes as if willing it to speak, to reveal the hated creatures’ secrets. It worried him that these Wolfen had such strong hearts, their honour a shield against his torture. The bag held only the trophies he had removed from them. He grinned, baring his needle-like teeth. Others’ agony was satisfying and information was vital for the coming war – torture worked on some, but not all. Other sources were needed. Not all Wolfen were honourable. You just needed to find the right ones, and use the right methods.

The Panterran slung the bag over his shoulder and walked back to the camp. His spies had already found out that the Man-kind had made it to Valkeryn, and King Grimvaldr was calling it an omen for the Wolfen. There was no doubt: the Man-kind arriving, at this of all times, was a sign – but for whom, and of what?

Orcalion cursed the executed Panterran again for allowing the hairless creature to escape before he had a chance to interrogate him personally. He needed the information the creature held – in its mind, or in its guts – either would do. And he meant to get it.

It was time to pay the Wolfen a visit.

Arn sat at one end of an enormous horseshoe-shaped wooden table. Close to fifty Canites sat around it with Grimvaldr and Freya – as he had learned the queen was named – at its centre. Eilif sat next to her, requested that Arn be seated nearer as well, but the queen quickly overruled her. It seemed that order of nobility determined where one sat.
At least I have Grimson close by
, Arn thought. The young Wolfen now saw himself as a Man-kind expert, and had appointed himself Arn’s tutor and cultural guide. Perhaps as an heir to the throne, he could choose wherever he wanted to sit, or he just wanted to be further from his mother’s watchful eye.

Arn watched as dozens of attendants brought huge platters of food. He could see now why the table had its shape – the attendants were able to supply food and drink from the front, without having to reach over any shoulders.

Grimson kept up his high-pitched commentary, pointing to different male and female Wolfen and telling Arn who they were and what role they played in the kingdom. As a bonus, Arn also got to hear who had bad breath, who cheated at cards, and who was rumoured to love-chase someone other than his or her life mate.

Arn noticed that the other guests took the opportunity to sneak glances at him, but most looked away quickly when Arn caught their eye. Most, but not all: there was one older Wolfen – an advisor to the king, said Grimson – who went by the name of Vulpernix, who held his gaze. Grimson called him
White-eye
due to his having one milky, dead eye, and his stare made Arn feel a little creeped out. After a few moments, it was Arn who had to look away.

Arn decided to see if he could find other, friendlier faces along the table. Eilif was seated next to the king and queen, and immediately waved to him when she saw him glance in her direction. She then pointed to the different plates of food on the table, then back at Arn – he guessed she was trying to give him her opinion on which he’d most enjoy . . . Or was it the ones better avoided? 
I’ll soon find out,
he thought.

At last, the king raised his enormous tankard, and the table fell silent. Even the attendants froze, as if they were automatons suddenly powered off. Grimvaldr looked first down one length of the long table, and then the next. He nodded to each of his guests, and also to Grimson and Arn when he reached them.

Arn noticed Grimson nod in return, and he quickly did the same. The king then lifted his tankard even higher, and spoke to the group in a deep and strong voice that carried to every corner of the large room.

‘In the beginning, there was the light – and from it came Fenrir and the Guardians. May they look over us, and all our charges, until the end of all time.’

As one, the crowd responded, ‘Until the end of all time. Long live the king.’

Cups were raised, emptied, and then slammed down. Only then did the guests reach for the food.

Grimson grabbed several huge chunks of meat and dropped them onto his plate. He then paused to watch Arn, obviously intrigued as to what he would choose.

Arn looked at each of the platters – meat, meat, and more meat. Great slabs of what had to be pork, beef, lamb, and poultry – the selection was enormous. Thankfully, it was all cooked, but though he was far from being a vegetarian, he knew for his own health he needed some sort of fruit or vegetables. Looking down the table, he spied a large bowl that was filled with what he could only describe as lawn clippings.

He nudged Grimson and turned in time to see him stuff a fist-sized chunk of red meat into his mouth. Arn grimaced at the blatant reminder that these things were not people like him at all. He pointed at the grass-filled bowl down the table. ‘What’s that?’

Grimson half stood and looked down the table. He waved an attendant over to request the bowl be brought nearer. Once it was set down, he grabbed a pinch and pushed it into one corner of his already full mouth. He spoke while chewing. ‘Gronus shoots – they’re for digestion, stomach complaints . . . and also act as an expungent.’

He pushed the bowl towards Arn.

Expungent? Oookay, I think I know what that means . . .
An image of a dog vomiting up grass onto the carpet leapt into his mind.
Erk
. . .

Arn pushed the bowl back. ‘So, meat it is, then.’

He slipped the silver dagger from its scabbard, and used it to spear a piece of the red meat Grimson was enjoying. He put it on his plate, and sliced the chunk into smaller pieces. Spearing one of the slices, he put it in his mouth. It was delicious – tender and slightly salty. He couldn’t quite place it – a little like fillet steak and bacon all in one. He speared another piece, holding it aloft while he chewed.

He noticed a quiet had fallen over the table – no sounds of talking, eating, plates being rattled, or even tankards slamming down onto the wood. He looked around. All eyes were on him – or rather, the piece of meat speared on his knife.

Arn guessed everyone had been waiting to see exactly how he ate . . . especially with his small-sized teeth and mouth.

Feeling self-conscious, Arn raised his free hand, made an ‘O’ with his thumb and forefinger, and said, ‘Delicious.’

The king nodded and repeated the gesture back to Arn. Eilif had pulled her blade, and sat next to the queen holding aloft a speared chunk of meat.

Arn smiled and waved to her, but the queen reached across to make her lower her dagger. Arn guessed, judging by the expression of displeasure on the queen’s face, that Eilif was also receiving a scolding. Beside him, Grimson was also spearing his meat.

Arn smiled.
Hey, I’m making an impression already
, he thought.