by Greig Beck
The king roared once again, ‘Hold!’
And then, ‘Pull!’
* * *
Thick, buried ropes, trailing out onto the plain, and hidden in the dark, were lifted and pulled by dozens of Wolfen warriors. Straining at first, and then picking up speed, as if whatever held them, was ripped away.
In the dim light Eilif watched in bewilderment, and then felt her heart soar — huge areas of the flattened and churned land in front of the castle were sliding away as logs bound together and covered in soil were dragged from the top of deep pits.
Of course — the Wolfen with shovels, she remembered.
To the sides, Karnak and Lon’s warriors had done their jobs, and kept the mighty beasts funneled up the centre of the plain. The Panterran screamed warnings, but the speed and mass of the creatures was too much to allow them to slow or even turn, and their enormous bodies fell into the pits. Of the fifty monstrous beings bearing down on the Wolfen, more than forty tumbled into the voids.
Use an enemy’s strength against it, and make that strength its weakness, Sorenson had said. She caught his eye, and he threw back his head and laughed.
‘And now their weight will do the rest,’ he roared.
The bottoms of the pits were filled with sharpened spikes and the weight of the gravilents forced them deeper into the impaling traps. Lygon and Panterran could be seen climbing out of the pits, and the king held up one arm, and then swung it down. ‘Fire!’
The Wolfen archers fired a deadly volley of arrows onto the plain. Some Panterran tried to run back to their ranks, but the Lygon charged ahead. It didn’t matter — the plain was too long, too open. As arrows rained down, it became their burial ground.
The archers fired their next volley at the remaining gravilents who were nearly upon them. Their target was not the charging giants, but their riders.
In took only seconds for the last few moving mountains to be at the Wolfen front lines. Once again, the king’s arm came down, and ranks of Wolfen stepped to the sides, revealing the tips of sharpened tree trunks. Each of the shaped logs was forty feet long and mounted on a simple slide, with ropes tied off and straining at their base — in effect they were giant arrows.
Axe blades fell, and ropes were cut, flinging the thick trunks forward, like the mighty bolts of Odin himself.
Few of the giant spears found the soft flesh between their armour plates, and many were simply trampled to kindling beneath their tree-trunk legs.
The far killing was now at an end. This time, when the king’s arm came down, it was to draw forth his sword.
The war was here.
* * *
The gravilents were pulled by the chains linked to metal rings embedded in either side of their head, and though they roared in frustration, anger and pain, they were forced to follow their rider’s commands. Their broad heads swung back and forth, the huge spikes and blades cutting a swathe through the warriors not fast enough to leap out of the way. Giant Lygon leapt from the backs of the creatures into the melee, and Panterran fired volley after volley of poison-tipped arrows into the seething mass of Wolfen.
Though the Lygon were enormously powerful, they were few in number and no match for the front ranks of the Wolfen elite. They were soon brought down, and the Panterran, after firing their arrows, slipped from the backs of the beasts and sprinted in retreat across the plain.
A cheer went up along the Wolfen ranks. Though dozens had been crushed and cut down by the blades and spikes of the gravilents, they had managed to withstand this first wave.
The Wolfen whoops of bravado fell silent, as the drumming of Panterran resumed, and with it the more sinister rhythm of giant axes and maces banging against armour. The signal for the next attack had been given; even in the darkness, the wave of bristling orange-and-black shapes could be seen flooding across the plain. This time it was the turn of the Lygon — and this time there would not be dozens, but hundreds upon hundreds… thirsting for Wolfen blood.
Eilif had seen the Lygon in the camp when they had freed Arn, but in their battle armour they seemed twice as large and frightening. She felt her heart beating like the wings of a small bird trying to escape her rib cage.
The challenging roars of her kin tore through the air, and Sorenson’s voice rose above all others.
‘For Valkeryn! For Grimvaldr!’ He drew his sword. ‘And for the mightiest Wolfen who ever lived — for Strom!’ He charged, and was followed by the hundreds of Wolfen horsemen down onto the now bloody plain.
When the two sides came together, the sound rolled across the kingdom of Valkeryn like thunder in the midst of a great storm. The clang of steel and the roars and shouts of the Wolfen and Lygon, and the frightened screams of the horses, was shockingly loud.
Eilif spurred her horse forward, her fear beginning to dull and her training taking over. As she approached the battle, one of the charging Lygon swung a club as wide as she was, at her head. She dragged on her reins, swerving her horse as she lay back nearly flat in her saddle, the club passing harmlessly over her. Lightning quick, she was upright again, slicing her sword down the creature’s back, opening a long, deep wound in the orange-and-black fur.
The infuriated beast screamed, and wheeled, but she was already moving on through the dense press of bodies and flashing steel. All around her, Wolfen and Lygon battled; bloody bits of both littered the ground, and the air was dank with the spray of blood.
She moved closer to Grimvaldr, who was still on horseback, and now ringed by a circle of his best warriors. Sorenson was among them, and she marvelled at his skill and strength, delivering mortal blows that severed snarling heads and removed limbs from brutish bodies.
She became aware of a whistling sound, and then what she thought was the fall of a heavy rain. But then it became clear: it was rain, but of a more deadly kind — Panterran arrows. Thousands were loosed, and of those, hundreds penetrated deep into the bodies of Lygon and Wolfen alike.
At shouts from the generals, the Wolfen dismounted. The horses galloped back to the rear Wolfen line, and each time the deathly whistle heralded the approach of the Panterran’s arrows, the Wolfen raised their shields above their heads, forming a protective roof of steel.
More Wolfen now joined the fray, and the king and the generals quickly organised them into their fighting ranks. Solid walls of Wolfen, five deep, fought in waves.
The first line fought until fatigued, and then fell back behind the next line, and on it went. The generals yelled commands, the arrows continued to fall, and the Lygon kept coming. Then there was more drumming, and the arrow fall ceased. Immediately, in among the tree-trunk legs of the Lygon, the smaller bodies of the Panterran swordsmen whipped through like wisps of smoke, slicing at the Wolfen with their curved blades.
For every Lygon, or dozen Panterran, the Wolfen cut down, twice that many seemed to take their place.
The storm of battle raged for hours, and those Wolfen who paused to draw breath and look to the far hills of the Panterran camps, saw nothing to raise their spirits — the dark tide of bodies continued to pour down towards the Wolfen front lines.
Eilif’s arm was a leaden weight, and as she drove her sword into the chest of one Panterran, another caught her in the back, its curved blade finding its way between the plates of her armour. As she whirled and cut her attacker down, she could feel the warm wetness of her blood soaking her fur.
She gritted her teeth. It may be a while now before I see you, my Arnoddr. Hoping that heaven and Valhalla were the same place, she fought on towards her father.
* * *
The head of Strom hung in the darkness — like some horrifying totem — at the top of Goranx’s pike. Holding it aloft with one hand, in his other the monstrous Lygon wielded a massive broadsword, which swept through Wolfen and Panterran alike as he cut a path towards the Wolfen king.
Grimvaldr had his back turned, but Sorenson saw the danger and pushed his way forward, roaring a challenge, his fury unleashed when he saw
what the great beast carried.
Amidst the bloody carnage, the giant Lygon heard the challenge, and roared in return. He planted the pike in the earth, and charged.
Sorenson was a solid warrior, but considerably outweighed by his opponent. Now fighting at her father’s back, Eilif feared for her warrior friend as she watched him engage the beast, diving and rolling under the first swing of its blade. In return, his own sword slashed through the air and cut deeply into the back of one of the giant’s legs.
Again and again, the Lygon’s massive blade swung at him, but each time Sorenson ducked and weaved, leaving deep cuts in the Lygon’s hide. The orange-and-black fur was becoming matted with blood.
Sorenson circled the Lygon, his sword held firm and unwavering before him. He reached up, pulled off his helmet and threw it to the ground. He pointed to his brother’s head, impaled on the pike.
‘Your head will soon take its place, mindless brute from the dark lands.’
The Lygon smiled, delighted at seeing the face before him. He responded in a voice that was as deep as Hellheim.
‘I know you, brother of Strom, son of Stromgarde. And now know me: I am Goranx, taker of heads, slayer of armies.’ He swung his blade back and forth, the huge weapon making the air swirl around them, and forcing Sorenson to duck one way, then the other. ‘Did you know your brother begged for my forgiveness?’
The effect of these words on Sorenson was only momentary, but it distracted him enough that he didn’t notice the body of a fallen Wolfen behind him. The Lygon swung his sword, and as Sorenson stepped back, he stumbled.
Goranx took his chance: lunging forward, he brought his sword down again, and this time all Sorenson could do was raise his own sword above his head to try to block the blow. But it was as if a tree trunk had fallen on him — his blade shattered into pieces as the other blade smashed through it and embedded itself into his armour, and deep into the flesh beneath.
Goranx seized Sorenson by the throat and lifted him up, squeezing until the Wolfen’s tongue began to protrude. He pulled him close, and hissed into his face, ‘It was always going to end like this.’ Tossing the fallen Wolfen back onto the ground, he placed one giant foot on Sorenson’s chest, then threw back his head and roared.
In one swift move, he dragged his buried sword from the Wolfen’s shoulder and raised the blade high into the air.
Eilif screamed Sorenson’s name, and the sound of her own voice snapped her out of the paralyzing shock of watching the giant destroy her friend. The monstrous Lygon seemed to be savouring his moment of victory, and it gave her precious seconds to act. Sighting a fallen Panterran archer, she dived towards him, snatching the bow and arrow from his dead fingers.
In one smooth motion, she nocked an arrow and fired. Goranx screamed — in shock more than pain — and he tore out the shaft protruding from his side. He snapped the arrow like a twig between his fingers, and raised his sword to battle the circle of Wolfen elite that now closed in around him.
Eilif rose up to her feet, intending to join them — but staggered, dizzy, the leaden weight of fatigue dragging her back to the ground.
I’ll just rest awhile, she thought, the bloody mud cool against her face.
Strong hands dragged her up to her feet. It was Bergborr.
‘You must come with me immediately, princess.’
She shook her head. ‘No, the king…’
‘It is he who commands me. You are to be kept safe until the far Wolfen arrive. It is his order.’ He swept a hand behind her legs and picked her up.
She was weak, confused. Her eyes had begun to play tricks, and it seemed to her that, as Bergborr carried her through the carnage, from time to time a Lygon would loom up in front of them, then, for no apparent reason, pull back and turn away.
She stared past his shoulder at the battlefield. The Wolfen lines were thinning, but were still holding for now.
Bergborr pulled her to him.
‘We are to enter the forest, and use one of the secret trails to make our way to a hidden camp for the wounded. Soon the far Wolfen will come, and then we will see what the Panterran, and their Lygon mercenaries, are truly made of when our numbers match their own.’
She frowned for a moment, looking from Bergborr, to the forest, and then back to the battle. She could make out the figures of her father and mother, fighting side by side, the giant Lygon slashing and hacking his way towards them. She struggled against him, but Bergborr held her tight, and she had no more energy to fight.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘Those vermin will be no match for the Wolfen elite. But we must hurry.’
He carried her past the castle walls, and she heard a shout go up from inside. There was a roar and the sound of steel — swords being pulled from scabbards, and the pounding of thousands of feet.
As she slipped into unconsciousness, she heard the castle doors being thrown open, and a small smile touched her lips.
She whispered softly, ‘Odin, bless the far Wolfen.’
Chapter 48
Valhalla, He Whispered
Grimvaldr swung his sword in an arc, bringing the sharpest blade in the kingdom down on the sword arm of a Lygon. Both the arm and sword fell to the ground. The king’s silver armour was now dark, coated with congealing blood, and in one brief moment, he felt an oasis of calm settle in his chest.
He drew in a breath, and sighted first the line of Panterran flooding down towards them, then turned back towards the castle, where his Wolfen, though vastly depleted, still held their ranks.
Both Karnak and Lon’s forces had now been committed, and were also being ground down. But still he felt strong and confident. There were no more Lygon entering the battle, and once these giant brutes were brought down, the Panterran, no matter their numbers, would have no more stomach for battle.
He saw Freya leap and weave, and smiled with pride — she was graceful and beautiful, even in battle. He loved her with a clarity that seared his heart, and he fought his way towards her. As if his movement had broken some sort of spell, the battle crushed in on him once more.
He dropped down, just before a blade as thick as he was passed a hair’s breadth over his head. Grimvaldr stared up at the creature that towered over him.
As he expected, it was a giant Lygon, looming and snarling. Around its waist, it wore a thick leather belt, from which hung the heads of many creatures — including several Man-kind. He prayed to Fenrir that the Arnoddr-Sigarr was not among them.
Two of his elite leapt forward to grasp each of the giant’s arms, and momentarily hauled him back. But the strength of this creature could not be denied, and the Lygon threw each to the ground, and turned to face them.
Grimvaldr regained his feet as a heavy gong resounded within the castle, and he paused to raise his head to listen.
The gates of the castle were thrown open, and time stood still as thousands of creatures collectively held their breath. The king raised his sword high, preparing to command the second charge, but instead his arm fell by his side.
A boiling multitude of bristling fur and curved fangs exploded through the gates. It was another Lygon army; somehow they had made their way into the castle grounds, and now had both the higher ground, and a position at the flank of the Wolfen.
The horde smashed into the rear Wolfen, and the Lygon front line pressed forward with renewed ferocity. Floating over the swarming mass of cursing, fighting and dying creatures, Grimvaldr thought he could hear the merciless cackle of the Panterran queen. Perhaps she had been brought forward so she could watch the final moments of the Wolfen as they were hacked and slashed and crushed from all sides.
In this darkest moment of distraction, the king sensed that menacing presence behind him once again. He tried to turn, but this time it as too late. The massive sword, thrust with the brute strength of the giant Lygon, pushed through the hardened Wolfen steel armour on his back, and burst from his chest. He felt his feet lifting off the ground as he was held aloft as a bloody,
still-breathing trophy.
His own sword fell from his hand, and he reached to grasp the blade protruding from his chest. Grimvaldr wished he could speak, so he could yell one last order to his Wolfen.
Be brave — fight on! he would roar to them. Instead, as his vision began to cloud, he could only watch as Freya, his beautiful queen, screamed his name and rushed towards him, only to be cut down by a dozen Panterran.
Grimvaldr crushed his eyes shut. No more orders would come from him now, no saviours of the Wolfen race would come this day.
As he was lifted higher above the heads of the last few battling Wolfen, he saw the sun begin to rise at the far edge of the horizon — rising in the far lands, where he hoped his son was making his way now.
Grimvaldr felt the rays on his face, and in that fresh red warmth, he saw golden doors opening.
Valhalla, he whispered.
Chapter 49
The Fall of the Wolfen
Arn paused and grabbed Grimson by the shoulder. The sun was coming up, and a slight breeze blew up from behind them, carrying with it a sound he could just make out. It was like a gong or bell being struck over and over.
Grimson lifted his head to sniff the air. ‘My father — I can’t… I can’t sense him anymore.’ He looked up at Arn. ‘Can we go back, Arnoddr?’
Arn shook his head. ‘Not this day.’ He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He hoped somehow that Eilif had survived, that the far Wolfen had arrived in time, and that Grimvaldr had triumphed. But even though the sounds of the gong probably signalled the end of the battle, deep down he knew the day did not belong to the Wolfen.
He watched the sun rise up over the horizon. He might have travelled a million years, and might have arrived just in time to witness the last night of the Wolfen. It isn’t fair, he thought.
He patted Grimson on the shoulder and glanced at him, and for a moment the youngster looked like a normal boy. He blinked and the mirage dissolved. Grimson looked up and smiled, and Arn turned away. ‘C’mon, we have a lot of ground to cover.’
