Return of the Ancients (11 page)

The jormungandr had sensed that Eilif was its easiest prey and focused its attack on her. The massive body was already looming over her, its tusk-like mandibles drawn wide. Arn only had seconds more before she would be engulfed by the horrible monster from the Wolfen’s own version of hell.

His instincts took over. Snatching up a heavy thigh bone lying near his feet, he ran hard at the beast and leapt upon it, bringing his makeshift club down on the back of its shell with a sickening crunch.  

Cracks and fissures crazed away from the wound in its back, which immediately started to ooze black blood. The jormungandr swung away from Eilif and coiled around on itself, whipping back and forth and throwing Arn to the ground. Hissing with rage, it raised the front part of its broad body high into the air.

Arn set his feet, preparing to leap the opposite way to whichever angle the creature came at him. Instead, its enormous body began to vibrate. He heard Eilif’s cry of warning a few seconds too late to understand what she was trying to tell him.

A globule of green slime flew from the mouth of the beast and struck Arn in the face. His eyes burned; tears streamed down his cheeks, and his vision dimmed to a shadowy blur. The head of the creature swam before him, now seeming to fill his entire world.

This is gonna hurt
, he thought, and closed his eyes.

Arn was struck hard from the side, and cried out in fear – until he realised it wasn’t the clacking mandibles that had engulfed him, but his friend leaping and pulling him out of the way. Wrapping him in her arms, she dragged him behind some rocks.

He murmured, ‘I can’t see.’

She whispered urgently into his ear, ‘The poison of the jormungandr is paralysing, and blinding when sprayed into the eyes.’ She hugged him close. ‘It was a pleasure knowing you, Arnoddr – if only for a while.’

The huge head of the jormungandr now loomed above both of them, but as Arn buried his face in the warm fur of the strange creature that held him, he felt her stiffen and turn her head.

Eilif let out a long and eerie call. Then she paused, listening. The jormungandr was now so close, Arn could feel the air moving as its huge body hovered over them.

She lifted her head and howled again, letting the notes echo and stretch inside the cave, and beyond. This time, there was an answer. And not one voice, but many. Arn could hear the sound of approaching hooves, then a huge crash as the webbing over the mouth of the cave was hacked to pieces.

The jormungandr swung away from them, and even with his weakened eyes, Arn could see the Wolfen who first stepped through the mouth of the cave was twice the size of Eilif. Dressed in his armour, the warrior looked like an enormous medieval statue that had come to life. In his hand he held a sword as long as Arn himself.

‘Mighty Strom!’ Arn could hear the elation in Eilif’s voice.

The Wolfen warrior let out a roar of anger, charging at the jormungandr with his enormous sword raised. He leapt in the air, sailing towards the gaping mandibles, and burying his blade to the hilt in the thrashing, tear-shaped head.

Roars and cries of battle filled the dark cavern, and for Arn, in his semi-lucid and half-blind state, the rest unfolded in a frenzy of blurred movement and frightening, chaotic noise. The poison of the jormungandr must have been seeping into his brain, for he thought he could feel the mandibles of the beast closing around him, and lashed out with his arm. He felt the impact of his hand on steel, and heard a corresponding yelp of pain.

‘No, Arn,’ said Eilif, holding him tightly. ‘It’s my brother Wolfen. We are saved.’

The pain from the poison was now so great, Arn could only guess that he was dying. He could see her – Becky Matthews, her long hair flowing as she turned to smile at him. But then her face began to change – her nose grew long, fur grew on her features, and her eyes became a silver ice blue.

The images exploded into darkness, and Arn slumped against Eilif’s chest.

*****

Strom spread wide his arms and roared – it was both a victory cry and a warning to the monster as it slithered away. He watched it disappear, then spun to yell commands to the other warriors who had fanned out in the cave, or stood at the entrance to keep watch on the surrounding countryside.

He knelt beside Eilif and placed one large gauntleted hand on her shoulder. ‘Is there any trouble you cannot find, little one?’

She placed her hand over his. ‘How can there ever be trouble while you exist, my big friend?’ She smiled, then winced in pain.

‘Easy there.’ Strom called over his shoulder to one of his warriors, who ran to his side carrying a satchel, from which he extracted several bottles and pouches. He set about treating Eilif’s wounds.

She pushed his hands away. ‘No, treat the Man-kind first.’

‘He can wait. Goran . . .’ Strom motioned to his warrior to continue working on Eilif.

‘No!’

Strom growled with annoyance and looked at Arn. His nostrils flared as he took in his scent. ‘It is as the king said, a Man-kind . . . and not very nice to look at, all hairless like that. I suppose we can cover him up.’

Eilif felt her anger rising. ‘He has a noble spirit, and he saved my life.’ She looked down at the unconscious Arn, and brushed his long dark hair from his face. ‘And I think he’s beautiful.’

Strom grunted and nodded to the warrior, still poised with the medicinal salves in his hands.

Goran pulled back each of Arn’s eyelids. He shook his head and spoke softly. ‘Not the same as a Canite eye – the medicine might restore his eyesight, or he might lose what little vision he has left.’

Eilif spoke without hesitation. ‘Do it anyway. Without any treatment, he’ll end up as blind as a ground-worm.’

She held Arn’s head tightly as Goran again lifted his eyelids, and poured a thick, milky liquid into each eye. He let the lids close, and then rubbed the eyes for a second or two. Then he bandaged Arn’s head.

‘There is nothing more we can do. It is in Odin’s hands now.’

Strom motioned for Arn to be taken outside while Goran tended Eilif’s wounds.

‘What of the others? What of brother Isingarr?’

Eilif gave no response other than a small shake of her head.

Strom grunted. ‘It is as we expected. We must leave now; there are Slinkers everywhere. We’ve never seen them in such numbers, and working so closely together – almost like a pack.’

Eilif grabbed his arm. ‘Yes, Slinkers – and others like nothing I have ever seen before. You must get me back to Valkeryn; I have important news for the king.’ She got to her feet. ‘Truly we face an enemy like no other.’

Arn held onto the strange saddle and bounced in time with the jerking gallop of the horse. His back hurt, his thighs were chafed, and his butt cheeks felt like a thousand mules had kicked him. He’d never ridden a horse before, and after this he’d make sure he never did again.

He wanted to reach up and touch his bandaged eyes. They itched terribly, but the pain in the centre of his head had subsided, and he hoped that was a good sign. Blindness was not something he relished, especially in a land where monsters really existed.

The horse swerved suddenly, and he gripped the saddle tighter. Someone else held the reins of his horse – leading him, he expected, back to their homeland. A branch whipped over his head – they were travelling quickly, and he assumed the danger was still close by.

Strange birdcalls, and the hum of insects gave the impression of mid morning. He could feel its warmth on his skin, and was aware of the strange scents of flowering plants, the many Wolfen around him, the horses, and the slight smell of fish that still permeated his jeans pocket.

They slowed a little, and he felt another horse bump up against his. A small hand grabbed hold of his arm, and Eilif asked him gently, ‘How do you travel, Arnoddr-Sigarr? Are you well?’

‘Like I said, just call me Arn. I’m well – but uncomfortable. I don’t usually ride horses. Well, I don’t
at all
actually. Are we far from your home?’

‘We’ll arrive by high sun. I wish you could behold Valkeryn. The turrets and towers touch the sky, and its mighty granite walls are so polished that they shine golden in the afternoon sunlight. Never have they been breached in all its history. You will like it there.’

‘What happens then? I mean, what happens to me?’ An image of being locked in a cage as some sort of Wolfen carnival freak leapt into Arn’s mind.

‘You are my friend. You will always be safe, Arnoddr . . . Arn. You may even get to meet the king. He’s nice, but a bit stern. I know he’ll like you.’ There was silence for a moment as if she was thinking. ‘Well, I think he will, anyway.’

Grimvaldr sat at his long table, with a circle of his most trusted warriors gathered close around him. Spread before him were the recovered remnants of the massacre of his warriors – smashed armour, torn chain mail, a punctured shield. It came as no surprise to him that Ragnar, brave and impetuous by nature, was first to break the silence.

‘We must hunt them down, sire. The Wolfen pack must have been ambushed and overwhelmed. Give me one hundred warriors and I guarantee I’ll bring you back the heads of these Panterran assassins.’

Grimvaldr looked at the faces of the Wolfen surrounding him – all tall, strong, and scarred many times over – the greatest warriors in his kingdom. They had never known defeat in battle, and now hungered for revenge.
Blind revenge
, he thought.

‘Brave Ragnar, I know you would fight to the very gates of Hellheim for your Wolfen brothers, but sometimes it is better to know your enemy first. You will have your justice – we all will. But we need to know who it is that has declared war on us.’

The king rose slowly to his feet. ‘I want six of our best scouts and hunters to track our enemy back into the dark forests. A group large enough to bring down so many of our best fighters must be either large or extremely formidable. And no matter how stealthy, they must have left a trail that can be followed.’

‘My lord, there is talk that they are wraiths, and . . .’

‘Silence those words, Bergborr!’ The king pounded the table, his stentorian voice echoing around the stone room. He threw the punctured shield to the floor at the gathered warriors’ feet.

‘Could a wraith do that? No, the attackers were real. And if real, they can bleed . . . and die.’

Bergborr dropped to one knee. ‘Forgive me.’

Grimvaldr looked down at the warrior. ‘Rise. The unknown is our enemy now. There will be no talk of wraiths, or werenbeasts, or monsters from the darkness. What we seek will be made of flesh and blood and bone. It will be brought down by Wolfen steel, like all those who have made war on us in the past. But first we must know who or what it is we fight.’

The king motioned to the large double doors of the chamber. ‘Let us hear from the sciences. Bring them forth to show us what they have learned from the print we found at the battle site.’

The king sat back down as the massive oak doors swung wide and a broad, low cart was slowly hauled before him. Standing on the cart, a tall figure, draped with a heavy cloth, towered over the Wolfens’ heads as it was dragged past them, towards the king’s throne.

Shuffling up next to it, an elderly Canite in flowing robes bowed deeply. The king motioned for him to rise. He looked up at the cloaked figure.

‘So, Balthazar, it seems you have been busy.’

The other nodded. ‘We thought at first you gave us only a little to work with, but it turned out to be more than we needed, my king. The print was of the Panterran line – its shape is unmistakable. We have all the biological information we need on Slinkers, and know that a Slinker print of a certain size will determine the height and weight of the one who made it. The average size of one of their adult warriors is roughly a little over half as tall as a Wolfen, and their weight about fifty pounds, give or take.’

Turning, Balthazar reached towards the figure, then grabbed the sheet and tugged. It fell away, and the king’s eyes widened. The assembled warriors either cursed or gasped at the strange sight.

The king couldn’t help baring his teeth, and his strong fingers curled around the arms of his throne, splintering the hard wood.

The decloaked figure had been crafted from clay, and stood about nine feet in height. It was similar in shape to a Panterran, but had a heavily muscled torso, leading up to a head that was both terrifying and ferocious.

The king spoke slowly. ‘The head and fangs; how could you know this detail, just from the single print in the mud?’

Balthazar looked from the figure back to the king. ‘Not from the print, sire, but from other clues in the remains of the armour before you.’

Grimvaldr gazed from the punctured shield up to the giant creature’s fangs. He felt a moment of dread, but he knew he could not show it. Any display of fear or indecision on his part would sow seeds of doubt and despair among his warriors.

He stood and grinned at his assembled Wolfen.

‘So, mighty warriors, it looks like we may at last have a worthy foe to fight. We now know their shape, but we need to know their mind. Send the scouts immediately – they are to report back in two days. In the meantime, to all my generals, I command you to assemble your Wolfen warriors, and be ready to march after we have learned a little more from the field.’

The Wolfen bowed and banged their fists against their chests, and then headed for the large double doors that had been thrown open – each of them glaring at the clay giant as they passed by it.

Grimvaldr called softly to the last of them, ‘Karnak, wait a moment.’

The tall, heavily scarred warrior stopped and turned. The king strode around the table and took his friend’s arm. He nodded up towards the snarling figure. ‘What say you, son of the House of Karnak – could they be real?’