Return of the Ancients (17 page)

Arn swore, and ran hard at the Wolfen – swinging and slashing his sword through the air. Sorenson parried each blow, but had to dive sideways to avoid a vicious swipe to his chest. Arn came at him again, and again Sorenson dived and rolled, yelling back over his shoulder as he bounced to his feet, ‘Good speed, and good endurance . . . but still no finesse!’

Arn manoeuvred the Wolfen warrior up against a wall – or so he thought. When Sorenson had his shoulders pressed against the brickwork, Arn grabbed his sword arm. In turn, Sorenson did the same to him. Now they were locked together. Arn was gasping, while the Wolfen still seemed to be breathing easily.

Sorenson tilted his head. ‘And what now, Man-kind?’

With his sword arm pinned, and not daring to release the Wolfen’s, it seemed to Arn that they had reached a stalemate. But just as he was about to call it a draw, Sorenson bared his teeth – the huge fangs just inches from Arn’s nose.

‘These are the weapons all Wolfen are born with. They are Fenrir’s gift to us. Of all the creatures I have seen on this world, your fangs are perhaps the least impressive . . . except maybe for the small fluffpeans leaping on the grassy plains.’ His gaze, too, was locked with Arn’s. ‘Be wary of close fighting with any of the creatures of Valkeryn – use your speed, and strength, and endurance, but never let any foe get close to your throat.’

Sorenson pushed him back and raised his sword. ‘Again.’

Grimson stayed as still as the mossy stones by which he crouched, in among the bushes. His three attendants had stopped as well, keeping well back to allow the princeling some space to complete his hunt.

The young Wolfen’s hunting ground was the edges of the lush forest close to the castle, still in sight of the tall ramparts that towered on the hill, but just deep enough and wild enough to provide some small game. His ears twitched as he listened intently to the sounds of the forest – something was close, he could sense it. In another instant, a cloud of creatures burst out from the brush into the air – small furred animals with membranous wings and long leathery tails, their screeches gratingly shrill as they fled the approaching danger.

Grimson drew back the elastic on his slingshot, took aim, and let loose the small round stone in its leather pouch. It flew faster than the eye could follow, and a squeal in midair immediately announced his success. One of the small flying creatures fell from the sky not fifty paces from where he knelt.

‘I told you there’ll be luck this day,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he broke cover and ran to where the thing lay, his keen sense of smell locating it in some thicker bushes.

Grimson lifted it and weighed it in his hand –
not a bad size
. He’d show Arn when he got back, maybe get the cooks to prepare it for them. But of course, he’d keep the head for himself – that was always the best bit. The young Wolfen spread out the membranous wings, wondering what the Man-kind would make of this ugly little flygen-gnager. He smiled, imagining the expression on Arn’s strange, hairless face.

He was growing fond of Arn. Grimson didn’t have any real friends in the castle, and the strange Man-kind was fast becoming the closest one he’d ever had. He had a way with his words and humour that made Grimson laugh nearly every time they spoke.

He chuckled to himself. Maybe he’d sneak the gnager’s tail into Arn’s garments to give him a scare.
Now that would be fun
, he thought, and chuckled again.

Grimson turned, expecting to see his ever-present attendants, but found himself alone.

He called to one, and then another. There was no reply.

Grimson stood quietly in among the dark foliage. From where he stood, the castle towers now seemed a long way distant. It was strange – too silent. He concentrated; there was noise – almost imperceptible.

Breathing.

He couldn’t help the tiny whimper that stole from the back of his throat; the brace of flygen-gnager had been startled into breaking cover when he wasn’t even close to them – they’d been startled by something . . . but not him. In the moment it took him to pull his small dagger from its scabbard, a strong hand wrapped around his muzzle and bound it with a leather strap.

The last thing he saw before a bag was pulled over his head was that the hand belonged to a Wolfen.

*****

The runner burst into the throne room and went down on one knee to deliver his message, his voice echoing in the vast space.

‘A Panterran emissary, my lord . . . He comes alone, and under the flag of peace.’

‘Peace,’ snorted Grimvaldr. He rose to his feet. ‘Assemble my generals, and have the Panterran wait at the gates until we are ready.’

The Wolfen runner nodded and hurried away. Grimvaldr walked slowly to the window to look out over the castle grounds, and beyond to the green lands of the kingdom. Most Wolfen had heightened senses – they could
feel
when the ground was going to shake, even before it did. Some could even sense an intention before it was acted upon. But Grimvaldr was of the royal bloodline, descended from Fenrir himself; as he gazed out the window, he felt a dark sense of foreboding deep in his chest, as if a great calamity or storm hung over Valkeryn and all his people . . . and he could do nothing to avert it.

He shook his head to clear away the disturbing thoughts, and sat down heavily in his chair just as his war party entered. As always, it was Strom first, in full armour, his brother Sorenson, followed by Karnak, Ragnar, and all his other generals, advisors and trusted senior warriors. Grimvaldr didn’t believe for a minute that the vile creature would be on a mission of peace.

Any news of Panterran travelled swiftly, and already the group knew of the approaching emissary, and that it came from their most hated of foes. On entering, the Wolfen simply nodded to Grimvaldr and filed to his left and right as he sat forward in the large oak chair in the centre of the room.

The king turned to Sorenson first. ‘Show our emissary and bearer of good news into the hall.’ Grimvaldr smiled and added, ‘And try not to bite his head off, young Sorenson.’

‘The taste would sicken me, sire.’ Sorenson bowed and walked quickly over to the double doors, pushing them open and allowing the smaller, hooded creature to enter.

The Panterran glided fluidly into the room, immediately reminding the king why they were called Slinkers. It halted after a few paces to look at each of the assembled Wolfen. There was no bow or nod – just a look of contempt on the flattened features.

‘Greetings, ruler of the Canites. Greetings from Queen Mogahr, ruler of the Panterran – may her name be blessed above all others.’

There was a stirring in the Wolfen ranks as they listened to the praising of another ruler in the hall of the great Wolfen kings. Grimvaldr simply nodded and raised his hand for order.

‘You travel here under a white flag of peace, and we will honour it. But you are not our guest, not our friend, and your race has been making war on us since before the dawn of remembered time. State your business quickly and go on your way.’

The small flat-faced creature grinned, his small tongue licking black lips.

‘As you say . . . Canite king. I am Orcalion, and I have been tasked with bringing a message of true peace, lasting peace. If you would only accept it.’ He paused and again let his amused gaze slide over the Wolfen generals and advisors. ‘There is much danger in the forests and the outlands, and this danger comes even here to Valkeryn. You know the Lygon have entered the kingdom?’

Strom took a half step forward. ‘Brought by you, vile eater of vermin.’

Orcalion grinned once more. ‘
Ah
, of course, the mighty Strom – the king’s champion and strong right arm. It is true we sought to meet with the Lygon, only to find out their intent. After all, this is our land also. But they will not listen to reason. They say they come to make war on
you
, Canite king.’

Grimvaldr waved his hand in the air. ‘We have met greater foes before, and have stood. We will meet any challenge to Valkeryn.’

‘Of course you have. But a thousand Lygon, each half as tall again as your own Strom . . . This will be an interesting war for a king to fight in his olding years.’

Grimvaldr knew that the Panterran was trying to prickle him with his words. ‘Is there anything else? Anything we do not already know?’

‘Mighty Grimvaldr, honourable Grimvaldr. It is true our races have been at war for nearly all time, but even we cannot condone the atrocities that will be inflicted on you by the Lygon – the atrocities that are
being
inflicted at this very moment.’

Orcalion reached under his robe and pulled forth a leather satchel. Several of the Wolfen moved quickly to stand in front of the king, forming a shield, and Sorenson put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Orcalion unwound the leather thong around the top, and pulled free a grisly necklace, tossing it onto the floor. It was made up of many Wolfen ears threaded together, one with a familiar notch missing from the top.

Ragnar bent and picked them up, rubbing the notched ear with his fingers.

‘Isingarr, bravest of warriors . . .’ He turned his gaze to the Panterran, baring his teeth as a growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Orcalion nodded and spoke quickly, the grin still not leaving his lips, ‘The Lygon are no respecters of the dead . . .’

He reached into the sack once more and pulled forth a tattered and bloody scrap of cloth. It bore the image of a silver, snarling wolf with red eyes – the house of Grimvaldr – the patch of material having been torn from a small tunic. The colour, the crest, Grimvaldr recognised it in an instant.

Orcalion tossed it to the floor. ‘. . . Or age.’

The king burst from his chair, gripping the Panterran around the throat and lifting him from the ground with one hand. Even then, the yellow eyes stared back defiantly, a suggestion of wheezing laughter in the strangled voice:

‘Brave king, righteous king, so noble, so large and powerful. You could crush me like a morning bug . . . but you will not. Your laws of safe passage deny it . . . and a Wolfen never strikes at an . . . unarmed foe. The war is coming, old king. It will be your last. Maybe I can save your young Wolfen son . . . maybe I cannot. Or perhaps the key to saving him rests with you this very moment . . . if you will but listen.’

Grimvaldr threw back his head and roared, and drew the creature so close, his breath moistened the fur on the Panterran’s flattened face.

Orcalion hissed, ‘You have something that Queen Mogahr wants, something that you can . . . trade to buy our help.’ His grin finally twisted into a grimace of pain as the grip on his throat intensified. ‘The Man-kind – give him to us, and she will intercede . . . personally . . . with the Lygon.’

Grimvaldr threw the Panterran from him, and roared his frustration to the high ceiling. Orcalion got to his feet and laughed softly. Around him, the other Wolfen had curled their hands into fists and snarled in their barely contained fury. Pulling forth a scrap of white cloth and holding it above his head, the Panterran edged towards the door, intoning the words for safe passage as he went. In the doorway he stopped. ‘You must give your answer by three eves hence. After that, the son of Grimvaldr may either be out of the kingdom . . .’ He sidled round the doorframe. ‘. . . Or out of his skin.’

With that he was gone.

Grimvaldr sat down slowly, his shoulders slumped, and stared off into the distance. Strom was by his side in an instant.

‘Give me a dozen Wolfen elite and some trackers – I’ll bring you Grimson, and the head of that creature, and anyone else who was involved in his capture.’

The other Wolfen were yelling their approval, and willingness to be in the first group to charge out after the king’s son. Only one stayed silent and brooding. The older Wolfen turned his one good eye on the king, waiting.

The king brought his fist down hard on the arm of his chair, silencing the others.

‘Speak Vulpernix. All voices are to be heard this day.’

Vulpernix nodded. ‘I suggest another option we must consider.’ He paused and walked forward. ‘We must think hard about handing them the Arnoddr-Sigarr.’

‘Never!’ shouted Sorenson. ‘The Panterran would kill the Man-kind, and then make war on us regardless. They can never be trusted.’ He banged his fist to his chest. ‘A Canite protects the pack, and the pack protects the Canite. He has already proved himself, proved he would fight for us . . . for your very bloodline, sire. Now we must prove the same.’

Vulpernix turned on him quickly. ‘He is not one of us! He is not a Canite, and he does not belong here. If he were truly one of the prophesised Old Ones, he would never have allowed the young prince to be taken. Where is his legendary magic of science? Where are his machines of war to protect us? By his own admission, he is here by accident . . . and all alone.’

He turned back to the king, his voice softening. ‘My king, I too like the Man-kind, but I would think hard about whether an idle friendship is worth the life of Grimson, and potentially every Wolfen and youngling in this mighty kingdom.’ He shuffled forward and went down on one knee before the king, taking his hand. ‘There is no other way, sire.’

Grimvaldr rose from his chair. ‘This kingdom has stood for a thousand years, and will stand for a thousand more. Many have tried to bring down these walls, and their bones now litter our battlefields.’ He scanned the assembled Wolfen.

‘Who here fears the Lygon? Who would run from the Panterran? Who would flee the kingdom of Valkeryn and hand it to these vile vermin eaters?’ The roars from the room were deafening; fists struck chests, and yells of fealty echoed around the stone chamber. Grimvaldr nodded. ‘And neither would I. Ambushing a few Wolfen in the dark is one thing, but they will find that facing an entire Wolfen army is another matter. Prepare yourselves and your garrisons. Every Wolfen, male and female, must be readied to fight. If these creatures from the dark lands want war, we’ll give them one until they choke on their own blood.’