Return of the Ancients (24 page)

She opened her eyes and looked up at the sky – the day was rapidly drawing to a close. Soon it would be the Panterran’s time, and things would shift in their favour.

*****

Deep in the tunnel, Strom slowed his digging, and then stopped. He placed his ear to the soil above his head. Sorenson had just returned from dumping the last load of dirt, and Strom reached out to take his arm.

‘We’re here, brother. Less than a length straight up.’ He tightened his grip; by the light of just the fleet beetle, he stared hard into his younger brother’s face. ‘Odin, give us strength this day.’

Sorenson placed his free hand over Strom’s. ‘And every day yet to come.’

Strom nodded. ‘Now we wait.’ He pulled some dried meat from his tunic and offered some to Sorenson. Both Wolfen leaned back in the dark tunnel and chewed, imagining their first actions when they emerged into the heavily guarded tent.

Sorenson held up the fleet beetle, its glow now making him squint. ‘And thank you, my lady. Your job is done.’ He opened the cage, and placed it in a little alcove he had dug in the tunnel wall.

*****

Steve Barkin tightened his relentless and painful grip. If Arn could only get one arm free, he’d be all right. But Barkin was too strong.

Didn’t someone see? Didn’t anyone care? He’d had enough. He craned his head around to look over his shoulder, just as Barkin leaned forward.

His teeth were like needles, his eyes yellow slits. Arn screamed.

He opened his eyes. Hours had passed, and his wrists, tied together behind his back, felt like they were on fire. Blood from the wound on his face had dripped onto the soil in front of him, and he noticed that a few of the carnivorous butterflies had arrived, to pick at it like a scab.

He lifted his head, and blinked to try and clear his blurred vision. Standing in exactly the same spot was the solitary Panterran figure. Its unblinking, golden eyes still fixed on him. From within the cowl Arn had an impression of its head turning slightly towards his guards. The figure then glided forward and knelt down in front of him.

Arn chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Nice place you got here.’

The Panterran reached into its robe and pulled free a small wooden bottle that it uncapped and lifted to Arn’s lips.

‘Drink this.’

At this point, Arn didn’t care if it was poison, or some revolting Panterran concoction, as he knew his body would soon shut down without moisture. He immediately drained the mouthful of liquid and then surprisingly, the creature reached forward with one clawed hand to wipe his forehead. Arn could smell the vinegary smell of the Panterran as it leaned in close to him, its golden eyes looking deep into his own.

‘Do not hate all of us, as all of us do not hate you.’

‘Who . . . are you?’ Arn tried to make out the thing’s face, but it pulled back, and then stood.

‘The ones who watch.’ The figure turned and glided away.

‘Thank you.’ Arn licked his still dry lips and watched as the figure disappeared among the trees.
The ones who watch? The ones who untie would be better
. He sat back to straighten his spine. It was cooler now, and the shadows were lengthening. Further down the camp, more Panterran were milling about, having appeared from wherever they had been resting, preparing for the coming evening. Many shot him hostile glances, their faces pulled into ugly masks of disgust, but only one took the trouble to spit at him.

A strange sound that started as a deep rumbling, and finished in an elephantine squeal, made him turn to look towards the far end of the camp. Arn thought he had seen enough weird wonders in this world, but this made his mouth fall open. A monstrous beast swung its head towards Arn, and emitted another squealing roar. Had Arn’s hands been free, he would have covered his ears. The almost bovine eyes peered out from under a hood of scales, and a metal ring was buried deep into the flesh of its temples. Arn couldn’t work out whether the thing had evolved from some sort of giant armadillo, elephant, or perhaps even a weird blend of both.

Its size and appearance was terrifying, but the thing that worried him most was that on its back there were fixed structures – simple T-shaped posts about three feet in height. He knew what they were; he had seen similar things in pictures, fixed to the decks of ancient wooden ships about to enter a war – they were there simply to give an archer or cavalry man something to hold onto as the pitching ship – or in this case, lumbering beast – advanced into battle.

A Panterran threw a thick rope over the beast’s head, and ducked underneath to pull it through the metal loops on each side of its face. Then he leapt up onto its neck, yanking at these reins as he rode it further down into the camp.

The armoured tank of the future
, Arn thought. He could picture this lumbering mountain tearing through the Wolfen lines. He lowered his head again, feeling a sense of doom wash over him.

Arn was losing track of time – was it minutes or hours later that Orcalion reappeared? Beside him scurried a portly Panterran carrying an ornate wooden stool. He placed it down next to Arn, and Orcalion sat on it and faced him.

‘Are you well rested, hairless bag of meat?’ His mouth twisted in a malevolent, needle-toothed grin.

Arn ignored him and concentrated instead on trying to blank out the pain in his shoulders and wrists, and also the odd fluttering he felt deep down in his belly –
very deep down
in his belly.

He wondered where Strom and Sorenson were, and hoped that if they did manage to stage a rescue attempt, he would be able to move quickly, or at all, after being hobbled and tied to a stake in the ground for so many hours.

Arn’s lips were split from dehydration, but he knew that a request for more water would just give the wizened little Panterran more enjoyment, and another opportunity to goad or beat him. He lifted himself slightly, determined to try to stretch the muscles in his legs, and get some blood back into them.

Perhaps thinking Arn was trying to get to his feet, Orcalion grabbed at the tether hanging from his neck, just as the flap of the tent was thrown back and a tall figure appeared. The warrior, dressed in highly decorated black robes, fixed his yellow eyes on Arn, then Orcalion. He nodded.

Orcalion laughed. ‘Time to perform, son of Man.’ He dismissed the two Panterran who had been guarding Arn, and unwound the tether from the stake, dragging him to his feet and leading him like a broken horse.

Arn stumbled and fell twice, before his cramping legs supported his weight. He tried to blink away the dizziness as he was led toward the dark mouth of the black tent. Nightmarish images of what was to come danced in his feverish mind.

The fetid air at the tent’s entrance was like a shot of smelling salts. The acrid ammonium smell made his eyes burn and his head snap back. Inside, there were braziers burning dimly, but still it was hard to make out anything more than shapes.

As his eyes slowly adjusted, he looked around. There were perhaps twenty Panterran standing guard – taller than any he had seen in the camp, and all with long curving swords hanging from their waists. Some held long-handled brushes, like brooms, which they constantly swept up and down the length of the most grotesque animal Arn had ever seen.

The tether around his neck was fixed to a metal ring at one end of a low bench in a corner of the tent. Orcalion sunk to his knees in front of the lumpy, sagging body of the queen. The horrific creature turned its luminous golden eyes on Arn, and yawned widely. A few blackened teeth showed in its cavernous mouth, but Arn winced and had to turn his head as the fug of its disgusting breath hit his face and made him want to retch violently.

‘Arnoddr – I knew you’d come to save me!’

Arn recognised the small voice immediately. He searched the other corners of the tent; tucked away to one side, in a cage no bigger than a small packing crate, sat a cross-legged Grimson. His face broke into a wide smile as he reached through the bars to wave. Arn could see blood on his fur, and anger boiled within him.

‘
Arnoddrrrrr-Sigarrrr
.’ The words wheezed towards him in a long slow hiss.

Arn looked back at Mogahr, but had trouble maintaining eye contact. He felt as if even the sight of her might infect him with her corruption.

Orcalion, seizing him, forced him to his knees. ‘Bow in the presence of Queen Mogahr the Magnificent, you disgusting hairless creature.’

Mogahr waved her hand at Orcalion. ‘
Leeavve usss.
’

Orcalion started to protest, but a glare from the queen sent him bowing, back-pedalling from the tent.

The queen sniffed. ‘
Youu ssstink of Woolfen, asss muuch asss the youung priiinceliiing
.’ She turned briefly to Grimson. ‘
Youung tenderrr priinceliiing
.’ She smacked her lips together over her blackened teeth, making Arn shudder.

Her golden eyes slid back to him. ‘
Wheere are the waar machinesss of Mann-kind
?
Wheere are the treesss of fire that reacched the sssky, and burnnned the land from mountain to sssea? If you teach usss your secretsss, we can be . . . friendsss
.’ She paused, her head weaving back and forth like a cobra, as though trying to see him from many different angles at once. Her look became furtive. ‘
Whaat havve you taught the Woolfen? Did you also bring them . . . gifts?
’

Her hand went to her robe and pulled it open revealing a pair of sagging, leathery breasts and the magnificent diamond, now chained and clasped in silver. The blood red stone swung forward and she stroked it lovingly.

Mogahr’s eyes seemed to stare right through to the marrow of his bones. Arn gulped and shook his head. A sound like a wet cough was hacked at him, and given the curve of her lips, Arn guessed she had just laughed.

‘
Wordsss doo not need to comme from the tongue, ssstupid ape. You wiiill tell usss . . . or your
waarm innardsss wiiill
.’ She motioned with an arm, and two of the guards moved quickly to take hold of him.

‘
I liiike yourrr eyesss – daaark liiike the niiight. I thiiink I wiiill keeeep them
.’

Arn’s guts were churning. Suddenly, he doubled over, dragging the guards with him and almost throwing them to the floor. Embarrassed, one of them wrenched him upright by his hair, and the other buried his fist hard into Arn’s stomach—

With a breaking of wind, a tearing of fabric, the beetle burst from Arn’s pants and flew around the inside of the tent.

 ‘
Fleeet beeetle – he’sss beeeing trackeddd
.’

One of the guards ran to the entrance of the tent, and pushed up the flap, opening his mouth to yell an alarm. But no sound came. Instead, he fell backwards like a plank of wood, an arrow protruding from his neck.

At the rear of the tent, a volcano of earth, teeth and fur erupted.

*****

Strom landed lightly on his feet, and shook the soil from his head.  He raised his sword. In no more than a single breath, Sorenson sprang up out of the hole beside him.

The Panterran guards were frozen. The Wolfen brothers charged forward, slashing and hacking anything that moved. The queen hissed a single command that had half of the guards crawling on top of her to create a living shield of flesh, their swords pointed outwards, so that they resembled some sort of spiked sea creature. It suited the Wolfen, as this took them out of the fight.

Sorenson caught sight of Arn, hands bound behind his back, leashed by his throat to a bench in a corner of the tent. He fought his way towards him, slicing through the thick tether easily. Strom was now in the centre of a Panterran storm of swords and claws, and his own blade rose and fell, filling the tent with blood and shrieks of hatred from the furious Panterran.

Arn called for a blade, but instead Sorenson dragged him to where Grimson crouched, rattling the door of his cage impatiently. In another moment, Sorenson had freed the young Wolfen as well, and was herding both of his charges towards the yawning hole in the ground. Just before he was pushed into the pit, Arn shouldered over one of the fire-filled braziers; its coals landed in the folds of the tent, which exploded into flames.

The Panterran shrieked and fled the tent, dragging their grub-like queen with them.

‘The one thing Panterran dread more than drowning,’ Sorenson shouted over his shoulder as they hurried along the tunnel, ‘is a good fire!’

As Arn dragged Grimson along with him, he looked down to see the female fleet beetle scurrying past them. Clinging to her back was the male.

So far so good
, he thought.

*****

Eilif held up her bow with the last arrow nocked, but immediately lowered it. The tent was a magnificent inferno, and the entire camp were running about like ants. The queen was dragged from the tent, and if not for the crowd of supplicants surrounding her, the temptation to shoot an arrow into her ugly bloated hide would have been irresistible.

She could hear the others coming along the tunnel, and prayed that they were all unharmed. She took one last look back into the camp. The light was beginning to fade to a deep purple, and she saw that a group of the giant Lygon had thundered into the clearing, and began to push, shove and fight with each other, their roars outstripping the sounds of the panicked Panterran.

Eilif pulled her bowstring back as far as it would go, aimed high into the sky and fired her arrow. The silent and poisonous projectile was too dangerous to take with her now that it had the vipod venom coating it . . .  She hoped that it would land among the Lygon, seeming to have dropped from the sky itself.

‘A gift from Odin,’ she whispered, laughing softly as waited, crouched beside the tunnel exit.

They ran through the forest in single file – Sorenson, Grimson, then Eilif, Arn, and finally Strom. They kept close together, with no more than an arm’s length between them.