Return of the Ancients (16 page)

The two stumps were left side by side – Sorenson’s axe buried about a third of the way down, and Strom’s more than double that.

The familiar creak of wheels from behind Arn heralded the arrival of another two stumps and axes. Grimson nudged him. ‘Your turn, Arnoddr. Just use your baseball magic again.’ He gave Arn a gentle shove.

Reluctantly, Arn stepped forward. As he stood by Strom’s side, there was another furious round of betting. Arn guessed that the sight of him, next to the massive bulk of the king’s champion, inspired renewed confidence in those who were betting against him. He could also see that Bergborr now had a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

Arn turned to Strom, who bowed to him. As before, the giant motioned towards the axes. Arn looked to Eilif who had her hands clasped together in front of her chin, looking like she was ready to start praying. She mouthed something he couldn’t understand.

Arn flashed her a tight smile, drew in a deep breath and walked like a condemned man to the bench. He examined the enormous weapons laid out there; to his eye, there was no difference between them, and he placed his hand on the closest.

His heart raced in his chest, as he picked up the axe. Surprisingly, it was light . . . in fact,
much
lighter than he expected. He knew it shouldn’t have been; he had seen Sorenson, and even Strom, straining to lift it. Was he once again under the influence of the strange energy the giant moon seemed to be affording him? The thick blade was carved with runes, and its polished surface threw back a distorted image of his face.
I look sick
, he thought.

Arn turned and walked back to the stumps. He carried his axe in one hand, and even managed to spin it slightly in his grip. Strom raised an eyebrow and stepped back to give him room. He placed his hands on his hips, and a smile broke across his face. He looked like he was enjoying the challenge.

Arn rested the axe head on top of the stump, and took a few deep breaths. Sorenson’s words drifted back into his head:
use the force of the swing . . . and beware the impact
.

He felt calm; he was ready. He looked to the king.

Grimvaldr was smiling, and Eilif now stood behind him, her hand gripping his shoulder in anticipation. The king nodded once.

Arn turned back to the stump. In his mind, he saw himself lifting the axe and swinging it with all the strength he could muster. It would be just like being at a carnival and swinging the wooden mallet to try to drive the puck all the way to the bell at the top of the pole.

I can do this,
he thought
. I can ring the bell.

He raised the axe over his head, and swung.

It passed cleanly through the stump and buried itself deep in the floor beneath it. The clang of steel on stone was startlingly loud, and many of the warriors leapt to their feet to obtain a better view.

The two halves of the large stump teetered, then toppled over.

Arn let go of the axe handle and stepped back, as surprised as anyone else. No one said a word; perhaps they were waiting to see how Strom would react to being beaten, and by a creature much smaller than himself.

A single pair of hands applauded him – it was Eilif. Arn felt a small hand on his forearm, and looked down to see Grimson staring wide eyed up at him.

‘I knew you could do it. You must teach me this baseball magic, Arnoddr.’

A huge hand grabbed his other arm and raised it into the air. Strom turned him to the king and roared, ‘A mighty arm on this one indeed!’

Strom felt the muscles up and down Arn’s arm and shoulder, as if searching for some secret, some hidden muscles. He gave up and leaned forward. ‘And you must teach me as well, Man-kind.’

At last the crowd found their voice, and one by one the Wolfen got to their feet and clapped. Many rounded the table to speak to Arn, or to Strom, or simply to see the axe embedded in the stone floor.

Grimvaldr also nodded his approval, and the queen hung onto Eilif to ensure she didn’t run over in a manner that might have been undignified for a daughter of royalty.

But there was one Wolfen who remained seated. The dark-furred Bergborr looked sullenly over his mug. It had been a mighty blow to the stump, but a mighty blow to his purse as well.

Strom still hadn’t released Arn’s arm, and gave it one last tug, almost lifting the other off his feet. He slapped Arn on the shoulder and said to the room, ‘Imagine if we could get this Man-kind to wield a sword?’

Eilif, at last breaking away from her mother, shouted, ‘He would be a mighty warrior in the defence of Valkeryn!’

The king scratched his chin. ‘
Hmm
, just so. What say you, Arnoddr-Sigarr; would you wish to learn more about the Wolfen ways – learn to become a brother warrior?’

The room fell silent again. Everyone waited for Arn’s response.

‘I’m not sure – I mean, I guess. I’m not really a fighter. I might just get in the way . . .’

The king raised his hands. ‘We are born with two strong arms, fang and claw, and more importantly with honour and courage. But what good are they, if they are never used to defend your home, your kin, or your Wolfen pack? We all must fight – the safety of the realm depends on it.’

Arn nodded, and the king stood up. ‘Then it’s settled; we will teach you our ways, and in return you will teach us yours.’

Arn watched as the attendants dragged away the axes and stumps, and three of them leaned on the handle of his buried axe, finally levering it free after several attempts.
Teach them my ways? What could I possibly teach them here and now?
he wondered.

Eilif skipped around the outside of the huge table, clapping as she skipped, and stopped beside him, grabbing his hand. Arn felt something cold and wet press against his cheek, and turned to see her pulling her head back. The inside of her ears had gone pink, and she looked away with a shy smile.

‘You are already a champion, Arnoddr-Sigarr – king of the Man-kind.’

Arn smiled at her, but before he could thank her for the compliment, the queen dragged both her and Grimson from the room. As they left, Eilif looked back at him, mouthing something he couldn’t understand.

A mug of the vile ale was thrust into his hand, and he raised it in a toast, but only pretended to drink. Throwing up might not have been a good look at that moment. He now felt welcome among the Canite Wolfen – well, among most of them, anyway. The older Wolfen, Vulpernix – the milky-eyed one – sat staring stonily at him.

Arn stared back into the milky eye.
So maybe not everyone’s a fan of baseball
, he thought.

Orcalion listened as the tall, hooded figure spoke softly from the shadows. The Panterran only interrupted him from time to time to ask a question, but for the most part he was struck silent by the recent occurrences in the Canite castle.

It seemed the Man-kind was growing in influence and support with each passing day, and once more Orcalion cursed the guards for allowing it to escape. He wished they were still alive, so he could torture and execute them all over again.

The tall figure stopped speaking, and waited. Orcalion could feel the other searching his face, perhaps looking for signs of deceit or treachery.

‘Remember our bargain, Orcalion – when the time comes to pass, I alone am to rule Valkeryn, with the Princess Eilif at my side.’

The old Panterran stared off into the distance. In turn, the tall figure reached out a hand, on which he wore a silver ring depicting a snarling wolf with emerald eyes. Quick as lightning, Orcalion turned on him, holding a wickedly curved blade up to his throat.

‘Never try to touch me again. I hear your words, and I remember our bargain well. You would open the deep gates and deliver up Grimvaldr to us. In return, we would give you his throne, and ensure all rivals for your new . . . queen, are gone. Just make sure you remain alive to claim them.’

He lowered the blade and glided a few steps away. ‘There is more work for you to do. The Man-kind makes things more . . . complicated. My queen wants this creature alive.’ He turned back to the hooded figure. ‘And you will assist in making that happen.’

‘That was not our bargain. Beware, little no-blinker, my desire for the throne does not make me your thrall, to be ordered about at will.’

The Panterran bared his needle-like teeth. ‘Since the Man-kind and the young female Wolfen escaped, the entire kingdom must now know of the approach of the Lygon.’ He rubbed his chin, his large yellow eyes slitted in contemplation. ‘Perhaps it is time to pay a visit, give them a reason to hand over the Man-kind . . . willingly.’ He laughed in an oily, wheezing fashion. ‘See that the Man-kind is not in the throne room when I arrive.’

Orcalion turned away then, but added over his shoulder, ‘This night passes, but I will be back soon . . . travelling under a white flag.’ He threw back his head and laughed.

Early the next morning, Sorenson led Arn out into one of the castle’s enclosed forecourts, where they were met by a large and enormously overweight Wolfen with a huge, soft leather roll at his feet.

‘Olaf.’ Sorenson bowed his head in acknowledgment.

The round Wolfen grunted and looked Arn up and down with a critical eye. He walked around him, prodding and poking, and tsk-tsking every few seconds – his chubby face bearing an expression as if he had just seen a spider on his piece of lunch-cake.

From his pocket, he produced a length of string knotted every inch or so along its length, and held it across Arn’s shoulders, ran it down his arm to his wrist, the length of his leg, and then wound it around his head.

Arn tried to keep still, but found it extremely unsettling when Olaf brought his long snout in close to Arn’s face, studying his features from one angle, then the next. Olaf shook his head and muttered something, probably about the dimensions of Arn’s head – or more likely, lack of them.

He stood back and nodded to Sorenson.

‘Good.’ Sorenson clapped his hands together and motioned with his head to the chubby Wolfen. ‘Olaf is the royal armourer and ironmonger. He’ll make some war armour for you. Today, we’ll just get a feel for the basic skills.’

‘Okay,’ Arn said, and Sorenson turned to the heavy Wolfen and spoke a few soft words that sounded like,
korte sverd
. Olaf knelt and unfastened the leather roll, laying it out to reveal a variety of swords and clubs – all wooden.

Arn stooped to pick up the biggest sword he could find. Before his fingers closed around its hilt, Olaf grabbed his hand, turned it over, and stuck a medium-sized sword into it. The ironmonger handed another to Sorenson. It seemed the choice of weapons had already been made.

Sorenson swished his sword back and forth in the air a few times, before turning to Arn. ‘The lesson for today is a simple one – don’t get hit.’

He pointed his sword at Arn’s throat. ‘A Wolfen must know how to strike well. But there is much more to fighting than that. What good is a strike, if you too are hit in a vital area? Even Strom might find it difficult to fight with the thinnest sword piercing his heart.’

Sorenson reached forward and grabbed Arn’s arm. ‘Having the strength to split a stump is a magnificent asset – especially when battling the likes of a jormungandr, werenbeasts, or even thylakines. But against a couple of small, fast-moving Panterran, you’d be so full of holes, you’d leak like a fugl net.’

Sorenson placed his own sword under his arm so he could check Arn’s grip on the wooden weapon. He stood back and smiled.

‘Strength, endurance, skill and finesse – these are the things that bring a Wolfen home safely from battle. Any time the kingdom gets attacked by invading tree stumps, you’re the one I want next to me.’ He laughed and touched Arn’s sword with his own. ‘But in a real duel, against real foes, and to the death? We’ll see.’

He swished his sword through the air again. This time, Arn did the same, testing its weight, and how it felt in his grip. Following his triumphant splitting of the tree stump, he was feeling confident, certain he had the strength and speed to win. He liked Sorenson, so decided he’d take it easy on him and try not to embarrass the youthful warrior too much on this first session.

Sorenson saluted, touching the blade of his sword to his brow. In turn, Arn adopted a fencer’s pose, as he had seen a hundred times on television – side-on, legs apart, his sword pointed at the Wolfen warrior. His other arm was arched up above his head.

Sorenson laughed. ‘What is this? Do you wish to dance first, young Man-kind?’

With that, the Wolfen lunged at him, and Arn moved out of the way, bringing his sword around to where he expected Sorenson’s blade to be . . . Instead, he felt it crack across the backs of his knees, his legs buckling under him.

Arn blinked, his eyes focusing on the point of Sorenson’s blade, which was now under his chin. It was strange; the electrifying strength he had felt the evening before was not running through his body anymore. The Wolfen warrior lowered his sword, and held out his hand.

‘Maybe we should start with something a little simpler? Like how to balance while holding a sword.’

Arn grabbed the outstretched hand. ‘I can get this. Let’s do it again.’

Sorenson heaved him to his feet. ‘Good spirit. I like that.’

They set themselves again. This time, Arn took the initiative, feinting to one side, but then shifting his weight and attacking from the other. But still the Wolfen seemed to know what he was planning to do, even before he did it.

Like before, Arn’s sword found only thin air, the flat of his opponent’s blade striking him across the back of his head, and knocking him forward. Arn spun on his heels, gritting his teeth.

Sorenson was trying hard not to laugh. ‘Just as well the fur on your head is thick, Man-kind.’