Return of the Ancients (15 page)

Having piled the table high with food, the attendants returned with all manner of boxes, pipes, stringed objects and what looked like shallow drums. Sitting on the floor in the middle of the table area, they began to play music. Arn winced; to his ears, the music was strange, with discordant notes that usually ended with one or several of the musicians lifting his or her head, and emitting a long, mournful howl.

Arn laughed behind his hand.
Guess some things never change
, he thought.

The remaining attendants brought around large earthenware jugs containing a dark liquid that smelled like herbs in ale. Arn poured himself half a mug.

He lifted it and sniffed. The soft curl of warm spices tickled his nose. He shrugged.
When in Rome
, he thought.

He lifted the mug to his lips – nearly gagged, and had to secretly let the liquid dribble back into the cup, trying hard not to allow the contents of his stomach to follow. It was so bitter and so vile, he wondered briefly whether it was supposed to be some sort of cleaning fluid. Arn quickly pushed another small piece of meat into his mouth to try and remove the lingering taste – it didn’t work.

Beside him, Grimson kept up a constant stream of questions: about his home, his family, his weapon of choice – to which Arn simply answered,
hockey stick
, to the youth’s bewilderment. His curiosity then turned to how fast Arn could run, climb, or jump over things. It seemed the young Wolfen was competitive; it wasn’t long before his questions morphed into his boasting to Arn about his
own
physical capabilities.

Arn looked around the long table. Everything was so strange, yet so familiar. The Wolfen slumped in their seats, belching loudly, slapping each other’s shoulders and laughing – perhaps ruminating over the day’s events, or those still to come. Though the scene looked medieval, it was so . . . normal. It was easy to forget that these beings were wolves, or at least descended from them.

Arn also leaned back in his chair.
Ape
, the vile Panterran had called him. Was he so different, then? Perhaps what he was seeing was not so fantastic after all.

He looked up at one of the hall’s high windows just as the moon appeared from behind the clouds. The night made him feel good, the moon even better.
Guess, I’m a night person now
, he thought, just as the king raised his hand to silence his guests.

 ‘Young Man-kind, it is said you have a mighty arm, even though you yourself have professed to not being of warrior stock. Is this a truth?’

Arn cautiously nodded, not sure exactly what he was being asked. He looked to Eilif, who mouthed something to him. Was it an encouragement . . . or a warning?

The king must have sensed his uncertainty, and added, ‘To make war on a jormungandr by oneself, let alone to crack its hide, usually takes Wolfen steel and a mighty arm – or many mighty arms. But I have been told that you managed to do both with little more than a length of bone. How is this possible, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’

Arn felt the moon’s glow on the back of his neck, the energy it gave him. Was his unnatural strength due to the silver orb being so close to the Earth now? Was its gravity somehow affecting him? How could he explain it, when he didn’t understand it himself? He didn’t try.

‘Ahh, baseball . . . and a lot of luck, I guess.’ Arn shrugged. There was silence as the crowd obviously expected more from him than just some obscure and alien term that no one in the room understood. ‘It’s a game we play, where we throw a ball really hard to another player who has a bat –
ahh
, a long piece of wood . . . Anyway, it’s his job to hit the ball. Gives you strength.’

Grimson whispered, ‘I could try that, if you show me.’

The king leaned forward. ‘And this baseball teaches you how to put so much power into a blow, it can put crushing dents into the armour of the strongest beast in this land?’ He looked along the table to where Andrejk sat with his stitched forehead. ‘And also bash in a Wolfen helmet . . . and head, as well.’

The guests laughed at the king’s jibe. Andrejk joined in, and lifted his mug in a toast.

The king’s face suddenly became serious. He motioned with one arm for Arn to stand.

Arn rose slowly to his feet. ‘Baseball teaches you to throw straight, but as for cracking the creature’s armour, I just think I must have been lucky enough to hit it in a weak spot.’

‘A weak spot?
Hmm
.’ The king turned to Strom and nodded. In response, the giant warrior stood, pushing back his chair, its feet grating loudly in the now silent room. He walked slowly around the table, his eyes fixed on Arn.

Grimson nudged Arn and whispered, ‘He wants to fight you.’

‘What?’ Arn hadn’t taken his eyes off the enormous warrior as he approached.

Strom stood in front of him, fists planted on his hips, his deep voice ringing out strongly, ‘There are no weak spots on the jormungandr, young Man-kind. I saw the rents in the thing’s skin – there were several. Several times lucky? I think not even once.’

Arn was still on his feet, but his legs shook and demanded that he sit back down. He started to sink, and looked from Strom to the king, and then to Eilif, who appeared as worried as he felt.

Strom boomed again, ‘Man-kind, it is honourable for a warrior to be modest. It is not, if one is concealing something.’ He raised one of his huge arms, motioning for Arn to join him at the centre of the room.

Arn swallowed. ‘I’m not concealing anything.’ His voice sounded squeaky, even to himself.
I am definitely not fighting this guy, today or any day,
he thought.

‘Approach, Man-kind; I do not bite.’ He grinned, his sharp teeth suggesting otherwise.

Arn still didn’t budge.

Strom looked to the king, awaiting a sign. The king smiled, lifted his tankard and drank, looking down into its depths for a second or two. He spoke softly.

‘
Sterkest slag
.’

A roar went up around the table, and the Wolfen started to bang their mugs on the wood and chant.
Sterkest slag – sterkest slag – sterkest slag . . .

Grimson gripped Arn’s forearm, ‘Sterkest slag!’ Looking down at the youth, Arn could see the young Wolfen’s eyes were alight with anticipation.

‘What’s . . .?’

There was a distant rhythmic sound of creaking wheels as the attendants returned. This time, there were no musical instruments, food, or beer brought forth. Instead, a trolley containing two tree stumps was dragged to the centre of the room. Both were about three feet in height, extremely solid and freshly cut.

A bench was also carried through by four more attendants, and laid close by. On the bench lay a pair of large, single-bladed axes. They looked heavy; even the four-foot handles appeared to be made of iron. Many of the Wolfen cheered and clapped, and started to chant Strom’s name. Some raised their hands and looked to the king, as if asking for something, or vying for his attention.

‘
Sterkest slag
– strongest blow,’ Grimson explained. ‘Go.’ He pushed Arn forward.

Ah crap; what the hell have I got myself into?
Arn stepped out from behind the table and slowly walked to the centre of the room, feeling the weight of the dozens of eyes upon him.
Strongest blow
– he felt he had walked into some jock’s football test, except instead of facing the high-school quarterback, he knew he was about to be asked to challenge a creature more than a head taller than he was, and probably twice as wide.

He heard a voice above the chanting crowd – not calling Strom’s name, but his own. It was Eilif. She cheered and made a small fist in the air.

‘Strongest blow.’ Grimson appeared at his side and looked at Strom with admiration. ‘Strom always wins; no one is stronger in the kingdom.’

Arn bent down slightly, and whispered, ‘What am I supposed to do?’

Grimson pointed to the tree stumps. ‘You need to sink the axe deep into the wood – the winner is whoever has buried their axe head the deepest.’

‘That’s it?’ Arn straightened, feeling safer now that he knew he didn’t have to try to swing the huge weapon at the giant Strom . . . or worse, having the king’s champion swing an axe at
him
.

Grimson looked at Arn’s arms and shoulders. ‘I like you, Arnoddr, but I don’t think you’ll win today.’

‘I don’t really think I’m supposed to. But hey, who cares?’ Arn shrugged, now willing to play along.

‘You might care. The winner is sometimes allowed to pick another challenge. Strom usually likes the punching contest.’

‘Oh great, that sounds like fun as well.’ Arn shook his head. ‘I wish I could at least see it done first, so I don’t
totally
humiliate myself.’

Grimson nodded and looked to the king. ‘Demonstration, father?’

Eilif seconded the request. ‘Yes, a demonstration of the art of
sterkest slag
by one of the elite!’ There were mutters around the able, and Eilif added loudly, ‘A dozen sølvs on the Arnoddr.’

For a moment, there was silence, then a burst of activity as bets were shouted from one end of the table to the other. Arn could hear they were nearly all for Strom, with a few extremely small wagers on him . . . and only because the odds against him winning were so great.

A young warrior with almost jet black fur spoke up loudly above the excited babbling of the crowd, ‘A thousand sølvs on the king’s champion.’

The bet’s effect was instantaneous – silence, followed by a roar of applause.

Even Grimvaldr shook his head. ‘A fortune, Bergborr, and one that no one will dare to claim.’

‘I’ll take that bet.’

Like a beast with many heads, the crowd turned as one to gaze in the direction of the voice. It was Balthazar. The old Wolfen looked first at Bergborr, then at Arn. His wise old eyes had a look of understanding that made Arn think he knew more than he was letting on.

‘Done.’ Bergborr banged his tankard down, his expression now as dark as his fur. Arn wondered whether he had expected no takers for his huge bet. But now he would make or lose a fortune this day.

The king banged a fist down onto the table, making the remaining plates and cups rattle and jump. The crowd settled and turned towards him.

Grimvaldr looked up and down the table, taking in each of his diners’ faces. ‘I
will
allow Arnoddr a demonstration. We must give the Man-kind some time to gather his strength, seeing there is so much coin riding on it.’

He continued to scan the assembled faces, stopping at a large young warrior. He nodded to him. ‘Sorenson, stand and show us your arm.’

The young warrior whooped and stood up from the table. He raced around behind all the other seated Wolfen, occasionally patting one on the shoulder, or pushing a head forward good naturedly. Arn liked him already.

Sorenson was tall, but still many inches shorter than Strom, and as he approached the centre of the room, the king’s champion threw back his head, and laughed heartily.

‘You, little brother? I should have known.’ He and Strom punched knuckles in a gesture that was eerily familiar to Arn, and reminded him of the camaraderie displayed at a million sporting events he had seen back home.

Strom bowed theatrically and motioned with his hand towards the axes – the first choice was to be the challenger’s. Sorenson nodded and walked to the bench. He selected an axe, and judging by the way he dragged it from the table, Arn could tell it must have been extremely heavy.

Sorenson walked back towards Arn, and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘Use the force of the swing, and never ease your grip,’ he said, his sharp eyes examining Arn’s face. ‘And beware the impact; it has broken many a strong Wolfen’s arm, whose hand was loose.’

He walked away before Arn could thank him, and positioned himself in front of one of the stumps. Spreading his legs, he allowed the axe to lean against his thigh for a moment as he wiped his hands up the length of his pants. His fingers flexed and closed around the steel, getting a feel for it. Cheers and jeers came from the crowd, and Grimvaldr sat back smiling, his arms folded.

Sorenson looked to the king, who nodded once. The young Wolfen started inhaling and exhaling – slowly at first, then faster and deeper. Then he let out a mighty yell and swung the axe in an arc from the floor, over his head, and then down onto the centre of the stump. The strike echoed around the stone room, and was only drowned out by the cheers of the seated Wolfen.

Arn had expected the wood to be cleaved in two, but it must have been like the toughest ironbark, as the axe only penetrated to about a third of the way. Sorenson raised both hands in the air, obviously satisfied with his swing. Strom raised his eyebrows, showing he was impressed with his younger brother’s arm.

Then came the chant:
Strom – Strom – Strom
. . . The king’s champion bowed and walked purposefully towards the bench, taking up the other axe and swinging it back and forth one handed, the heavy weapon somehow looking smaller and lighter in the giant Wolfen’s grip. He rolled his shoulders and looked to the king, waiting.

The king nodded. Strom turned to the stump and started to growl low and deep. The crowd fell silent. Even among his kinsmen, he was a fearsome sight. When he roared, it made Arn cringe slightly. He lifted the axe and swung it.

The blade buried itself more than two thirds of the way down into the iron-hard wood. Arn had felt a shudder from the impact as it travelled from the axe to the stump, and then down through the heavy stone floor.

There were gasps, then cheers and applause. Strom released the handle and turned to the king, first bowing to him, and then to his opponent. As he straightened, he held out his hand. Sorenson laughed and grabbed the forearm of the large Wolfen. Strom in turn gripped the shoulder of his younger brother, and spoke with a smile. ‘Next time.’

Sorenson nodded and spoke softly, ‘Probably not until you are an old Wolfen, I think.’ He returned to his seat, getting slapped on the back by many of the seated warriors as he passed by them.