Return of the Ancients (31 page)

No one moved, or even breathed. The large, luminous green eyes locked onto them, and some of the ogreish creatures growled.

Chris Masters, captain in the Green Berets, had thought he was afraid of nothing.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ It was Jenson, behind him. ‘We need to evac, now.’

‘Hold your ground!’ Masters hissed. ‘Don’t move a muscle . . .’

Jenson ignored the order and sprinted back down the hill.

The sudden movement caught them all off guard, and the lead creature opened its mouth wide enough to fit Masters’ entire head inside. Teeth like a bear trap flashed in the moonlight as the thing roared. The noise was so loud, it chilled Masters and his team down to their very marrow.

Something struck Fuentes, who was standing beside him, and she jerked backwards with a grunt and a sound of crunching bone. Fear shot up Masters’ spine, but his training took over.

‘Engage! Engage!’ The four remaining M16s sprayed streams of lead.

*****

Colonel Briggs watched with cool detachment. One by one, the cameras were destroyed by things that could have torn themselves from the pages of a horror story. In the darkness, their features were unclear, but what
was
clear was how little effect the M16s had on these massive, fur-covered creatures.

She couldn’t tell what happened to the scientist, as he hadn’t been wearing a helmet-cam. But when Fuentes was taken out, he had been standing there with his hands to his head, and his face ripped with shock. She doubted there’d be any need for a rescue mission.

She looked across at Jenson who had come back through the rift, and her mouth curled slightly in distaste. He was still shivering uncontrollably.
Some Green Beret
, she thought.

She turned to her military aide. ‘Three things: one, get an armed guard on that rift – heavy-calibre weapons – I don’t want anything paying us a visit unannounced.’ The aide nodded. Briggs jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Two, get that pathetic, gutless worm out of my sight . . . and out of my army.’

Jenson looked up for a second, then buried his head in his hands and sobbed.

‘And three, I want two squads of Delta Force, and some bigger ordinance. And make sure you get Samson on the team.’ She half saluted, dismissing the aide. Her lip curled slightly as she rewound the image loop. ‘We’ll shown ’em we’ve got our own monsters.’

Briggs gritted her teeth and spoke at the screen. ‘Military Rule-1 – when pushed, push back harder.
Brigg’s Rule-1
– if you want something done right, do it yourself. This time I’m going too.’ She looked across to where Harper knelt beside the shivering soldier. ‘I mean,
we’re
going too.’

She smiled at the chaos and destruction on the screen. ‘Thank you. Now I have no reason to play fair with you at all. I’m coming, and I
do not
come in peace.’

Bergborr entered the gatekeeper’s armoury, and called loudly to the key master. A short, brutish-looking Wolfen ambled out, covered in soot and wearing a leather apron. His hands were scarred from working with fire, hammer and steel his entire life.

‘Drengi.’ Bergborr bowed slightly. ‘I’ve come to conduct an audit of the castle keys. All must be double checked and secured.’

The ironmonger stared hard at Bergborr. ‘Where is the order? I have already secured all vital keys in the heavy vault.’

Bergborr raised his voice slightly. ‘I am charged by Grimvaldr himself.’

Drengi lifted a rag and wiped his hands. ‘I will need to see—’

Bergborr exploded in rage and roared into the squat Wolfen’s face, ‘By Odin’s wrath, we are at the moment of war, and you want a bureaucrat’s signature? Retrieve the keys for audit
immediately
. Or at this most dire time, do you want Grimvaldr himself to come and beg you personally?’

The squat key master grunted, nodded, and disappeared for several moments, returning with several wooden boxes. He opened one lid after the other, displaying large ancient keys, almost identical except for engraved Wolfen words on their shafts, which identified what they opened and where.

Bergborr ran his gaze over them, and then pointed to the boxes. ‘Count them off.’

Drengi nodded again, and performed a quick audit, knowing each key by heart, having kept them in order and in good care. He went from one box to the next, and as he moved down the line, Bergborr placed his hand in the boxes, lifting out one key after the other and turning it over in his hand. He stopped and held one up to the light, noting its deeply etched lettering.

‘Please sir, keep them in good order, in the event we need to reach for one, or all, in haste.’

Bergborr placed his hand back in the box. ‘Of course. Carry on; I have other tasks to complete before this day is ended.’

Drengi continued his count.

Bergborr had replaced
a
key in the box, but he had used his other hand, and this key had no lettering on it.

*****

Arn stuffed clothing into a leather bag, leaving room for some food. Eilif had baked him a loaf of bread, and he took a small bite. It was dry and tough, but he savoured the yeasty flavour and smiled at her effort. He next packed spare boots and a flask of water.

He had dressed in a leather jerkin and pants, boots and a vest. He looped a belt around his waist, from which he hung his dagger and several pouches. Lastly, he tucked his pocketknife inside one of the pouches.

He lifted the sword he had been given by Sorenson and half pulled it from its scabbard, admiring the gleam and sharpness of the blade. He laid it on the bed. Next, he picked up a heavy cloak, trying to decide whether he would take it – they’d need to travel light and fast.  Once outside the castle walls, the son of Grimvaldr would be fleeing for his life. Still, the targets on their backs would hardly keep them warm . . .

He held onto the cloak as he walked to the window, and looked out. Within the walls of the castle, thousands of Wolfen were forming up into ranks. They were orderly and without panic. They made him feel both sad and proud.

But from his vantage point, he could see beyond the walls, where smoke was curling high into the air over the ruined earth. The smudges of light he had seen on the horizon, from the distant forges of countless Panterran, had now become thousands upon thousands of surging bodies.

In among these, he could make out larger animals – the gravilents, he presumed. The whole scene reminded him of the carcass of a dead animal being consumed by maggots and carrion beetles.

Arn breathed slowly, closing his eyes and trying to blank it all out. But the whining and hissing of the approaching army of merciless creatures made his blood run cold.

Then another sound, behind him, made him jump.

Eilif stood in the doorway, regarding him curiously. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The sheen of her polished metal armour was startling in the candlelight. The raised crest of the red-eyed wolf adorned her breastplate, and her silver war helmet was pushed back, its wolf-faced visor snarling at the ceiling. He remembered something similar when he had first seen Grimvaldr on the hill. It seemed so long ago.

She walked forward slowly with her hand on the hilt of the sword. The armour moved perfectly with her, the chain mail fitting snugly to her body. She looked athletic, and fearsome, and . . . beautiful.

Eilif looked him up and down. ‘Why aren’t you ready?’

Arn threw the cloak over his bag, and sat down on the bed.

Eilif frowned and moved a few paces closer. ‘Do . . . Do you need help getting into your armour? I can do that for you.’

Arn shook his head. ‘I’m okay. I can do it. Just had a few things to prepare, and I guess I got distracted. Still a lot on my mind right now.’

‘Is it the homesickness spell that ails you again?’

He smiled at her. ‘Sure, a bit.’

‘Father said you cannot fight by his side, as he needs his generals close. I’m sorry.’ She looked away for a moment, then turned back quickly. ‘But when the battle starts, I’ll look for you. I want you by
my
side. Fighting together, it will be glorious – no one shall best us.’

He took her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But I want to look out for you.’

Arn was filled with such a sadness then, it threatened to well up inside him and pour forth in a wave of tears and confession. This amazing creature – this amazing race of beings – all could be gone in another day.

An old quote from his literature class floated into his mind, and before he knew what he was doing he spoke it aloud:

‘Every
parting
is a form of death . . .’ He paused as his voice threatened to crack. She seemed spellbound by the words, and he managed to finish. ‘. . . As every
reunion
is a type of heaven.’

She placed her hand over his. ‘That’s beautiful. What is a heaven?’

He smiled again, and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘It’s our Valhalla. A place of peace where all good spirits go.’

She nodded. ‘I would go to heaven, because I am a good warrior. So will you.’ She drew her sword and raised it.

‘Death to the Panterran! Death to the Lygon! And long live Grimvaldr and all the mighty Wolfen!’ Her eyes glowed with excitement. Then she sheathed the sword and headed for the door.

‘I’ll find you on the field.’ She paused as if waiting for something, and Arn rose from the bed, meaning to shake her hand, or hug her, or something.

As he drew close, he saw her lips just curve into a shy smile, and the inside of her ears darken to a shade of pink. She grabbed hold of him, and pulled him to her. He felt her face against his cheek as she hugged him hard. She pulled back, and made a fist over her chest as though grabbing something.

‘My heart . . .’ She moved her closed fist from her chest to his, and opened the fingers. ‘. . . Is now your heart.’

She quickly pressed her lips to his for a second, and then spun away without another word.

Arn watched her go.

The figure moved silently along the cobbled street. It wore no armour or clothing of any type, and if it had stepped out of the shadows, the moonlight would have shone on a coat of dark fur.

As it made its way to the edge of the stone channel that carried the stream through the castle, another, older figure emerged from the gloom.

‘A Wolfen without clothes – either you go to meet your love, or you do not wish to have your family crest seen by others. Which is it, young Wolfen?’ The older figure stepped closer. ‘Ah, Bergborr of the house of Bergrinne.’

Bergborr straightened, but kept one hand behind his back. ‘Vulpernix.’ He bowed. ‘Lurking in the shadows could get one into trouble.’

‘Only with those who look for trouble. You haven’t answered my question.’

Bergborr nodded. ‘I go to meet Eilif.’

Vulpernix laughed softly. ‘She would rather marry a Lygon than be in your embrace.’ The old Wolfen lowered one of his hands to the hilt of his sword. ‘If I was a traitor, I might be tempted to give an enemy a way into the castle. Perhaps . . . by unlocking the river gates?’

Bergborr bared his teeth and growled. ‘You dare accuse me? It is your own plan of which you speak. Besides, Panterran will never go near water.’

Vulpernix nodded. ‘That is very true. But unfortunately for the kingdom, we are not just at war with the Panterran. Everyone knows the Lygon have no such fear of water. You are cunning, Bergborr – but do not take me for a fool.’

Vulpernix drew his sword, pointing at the chest of the younger Wolfen. ‘I have been watching you for days. You slip out to meet with the Panterran. I know the secret meeting places, for I have used them too. I know those creatures better than you, young fool. I feed them useless information, and watch for it to be used to the detriment of their accursed Panterran queen. You also deliver them Wolfen knowledge, but it is solely for your own betterment, and to the detriment of our great race.’

Bergborr lifted his chin. ‘Not all Panterran are as you believe, there are . . .’

Vulpernix suddenly leaned forward. ‘Fool! What is it you think you will accomplish? They don’t make deals with Wolfen – they use them, and then crush them, as they surely will do to you . . . and the Princess Eilif.’

Bergborr fell to his knees and reached out his hand, beseeching the older Wolfen noble, ‘You are right, and I am a fool, and perhaps made more so by love. Do you know what it is like to love another, who barely knows you exist? What it is like to be the perfect suitor, but then be scrubbed from your love’s consciousness by a creature that shouldn’t even exist? If I am a fool for love, then I am one rendered deaf, dumb and blind to everything and anything but that love.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it is a sickness.’

Bergborr beat his chest with one hand, punishing himself, over and over, his face a mask of humiliation and sorrow. Vulpernix kept his sword up, the point only a few hand spans from the young Wolfen’s torso.

‘Love makes fools of some, and heroes of others. Get up.’ Vulpernix watched as the young Wolfen’s hand beat his chest again harder, and he made a sound of disgust deep in his throat, at the dark Wolfen’s lack of dignity. He was about to order Bergborr to his feet again when on the next motion, instead of the hand striking his body, it shot out and grabbed the tip of the sword. The razor sharp edge would have bitten deeply, but the weapon was locked, only momentarily, in a steel grip.

It was enough.

Bergborr gritted his teeth from the pain, and stared into the old Woflen’s eyes as he spoke. ‘But if there is a chance for that love, then would I not be a greater fool not risking all for it?’  He lunged forward, swinging his other arm up from behind his back, the full length of the metal key protruding between his knuckles. The blow struck Vulpernix in the neck, piercing deeply, and crushing his windpipe so that no sound other than a strangled hiss fell from his gaping mouth.