by Greig Beck
Arn swatted another couple of the large yellow butterflies. From a large bush, he dragged down a branch about four feet in length, broke it off and stripped away the smaller branches. Taking out his pocketknife, he sharpened one end of his makeshift spear.
Once finished, he admired his handiwork. He lifted the spear, weighed it in his hands, and looked down along its length as though checking a pool cue. Satisfied, he returned to the rocks by the stream.
He had only been gone a few minutes, but on returning he saw his butterfly bait was gone, and some of the fish from the stream were waddling back towards the water, propped up on stiff forefins. One still held one of the butterflies between its rubbery lips.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
On hearing him, the fish started to move a little faster towards the water. Arn leapt, spear held high.
*****
Arn threw the remains of the fish onto the ground and went to wash his hands.
He caught sight of himself at the water’s edge. ‘Like fishy, bony pork, and very nice.’ He finished with a belch at his reflection.
The sun was climbing towards its zenith, and he decided to set off again – he’d climb the hill and then hopefully be able to pick up the stream when it reemerged on the other side. He felt better after his small meal, and now he knew that at least there was some food he could eat . . . and more importantly, catch.
He looked back at the remains of the fish. It was already covered in the yellow butterflies. He shook his head. Carnivorous butterflies . . . What next – acid-spitting squirrels? He laughed at the thought, and set off.
*****
Arn climbed to the top of the hill – a tough climb, as it turned out to be a lot higher and steeper than he expected. As he neared its summit, he smelled a coppery odour and something else unpleasant that he couldn’t identify.
Once at the top, he stood and looked down into a bowl-shaped valley, and recoiled in disgust. Bodies were strewn everywhere; blood still oozed from vicious wounds.
He struggled to believe it was real. The dress of the fallen combatants made it seem more like some sort of dorky medieval battlefield recreation. But then the smell, blood and broken bodies, and what looked like large crows circling overhead – these proved otherwise.
He stared hard into the valley. Armoured warriors – like a cross between knights and Vikings – lay everywhere. But there was something about them that wasn’t . . . right.
And not all of them were dead. Other knights knelt among the bodies, and Arn crouched for cover before they caught sight of him. Further up the other side of the valley, a knight on horseback emerged from the shade of a tree, his armour shining silver in the sunlight. Upon his head was a mighty helmet in the shape of a snarling dog or wolf – all silver rivets, wild eyes and fangs.
Arn felt a sudden urge to yell to them – let them know he was there. Perhaps he might even get some answers. But something in their shape held him back. At that moment, the mounted warrior lifted his hands to his head and removed his helmet.
Arn’s breath caught in his chest. The shape of the helmet was no simple design of fancy. Instead, it looked as if it had been moulded to its owner’s actual features; a silver grey wolf’s head looked up to the sky, and the knight lifted one hand and ran it across his fur from snout to forehead. He opened his mouth in an anguished grimace, long teeth gleaming whitely in his long face.
Arn was frozen with fear and indecision. Given the dangers he had encountered to date, he fully expected these creatures to be carnivorous. The knight turned his head, and eyes like twin gun barrels fixed on Arn. Even from that great distance, Arn saw them momentarily widen in surprise. Those long teeth flashed again as the knight spoke to another, now standing at his shoulder. He pointed, and then the other armoured wolf also looked to where Arn was standing.
Arn wasn’t going to wait for these creatures to come and fetch him for dinner, but as he turned to run back down the hill, he found himself face-to-face with a sinister, robed figure.
It was no more than four feet in height. From under the hood of its robe, eyes that were yellow slits embedded in night-dark orbs stared unblinkingly. Beneath a small, flattened snout, a wedge-shaped mouth hung open to reveal rows of needle-like teeth in black gums.
Arn thought he saw it smile as its furred hand, which was little more than a clump of wickedly curved hooks, snagged his shirt and dragged him forward. As he struggled to free himself, something hit him on the side of his head, and mercifully everything went black.
Chapter 8
I Come in Peace
Arn woke to feel a chill across his belly and chest, and pain across most of his upper body.
He tried to sit up but couldn’t, and realised he was roped, spread-eagled, to a wooden frame. Worse still, he was naked. He leaned forward and saw that his clothes had been ripped to shreds and dumped in a pile. His wallet lay open, its contents also shredded, his sticks of gum scattered on the grass. Another piece lay chewed up in a small puddle of slimy goo, as though someone had tasted it and then spat it out.
Arn saw that his pocketknife lay unopened on a bench nearby, its stiff hinges obviously proving too much for the creature’s clawed hands. But there was no diamond. A small sound made him whip his head around, and the frame squeaked underneath him.
Several more robed creatures, squatting nearby, heard the movement and got to their feet. All moved to stand beside the frame, staring for a moment, before talking in a whining singsong language to each other. One pointed to several bits of Arn’s anatomy, this followed by more hissing and whining that grated on his already stretched nerves.
A hooked claw was pointed at his groin. The look of disgust on their flat features was plain to see – he was obviously as repugnant to them as they were to him.
There came a noise from behind the strange group that immediately quietened them, and then the frame was lowered until it lay at about his captives’ chest level. Feels like an operating table, Arn thought as he watched the creatures, and teased the ropes at his wrists.
With their robed heads bowed, they parted to allow a grey-faced creature to approach. It moved immediately up to his head, and bent closer to examine him with an unblinking stare, its yellow slitted eyes never straying from his own. The gaze was so intense, Arn felt it was stripping him down to the bone.
Arn tried to return the stare, but found it hard to look into the hypnotic gaze for very long. Instead, he looked into its mouth, which hung open to reveal the same needle-like teeth the others had, but these were grey and decayed with age. The vile smell of its hot breath on his face made him turn away, gagging.
The creature held up its hand and between two claws sat the magnificent diamond from the laboratory.
Arn nodded. ‘You can have it.’
The thing kept its eyes on Arn’s face and motioned with one arm, hissing something to the small group behind it. They immediately carried over a wooden bench, on which they then placed a heavy stone jug and bowl.
The creature looked Arn up and down, as though deciding where he would begin. Arn felt his nerves were about to break.
‘Can you understand me?’
The creature stopped and stared for few seconds, and then went back to pouring a stream of water from the jug into the bowl.
‘I’m your friend,’ Arn persisted. ‘I mean you no harm.’
The creature ignored him. Instead, he dipped his small, clawed hands into the water and rubbed them together, holding them up and inspecting them as Arn had seen surgeons do before commencing an operation.
‘Oh God, no. Listen, I come in peace.’ He knew it was pointless, but fear was doing the talking now.
It reached up to his face, and Arn felt the sharp talons raking his skin for a second, before circling around his temple as if searching for the tenderest places to start.
‘Please don’t . . .’
Then it began. The pain was excruciating as all five of the sharp talons entered the soft skin of
his temple. The face leaned forward to stare again, the breath reeking of carrion, rotting teeth, and a foulness that was both nauseating and frightening.
The hissing and whining commenced, and then stopped. Then came more probing and whining. Arn gritted his teeth. It made no difference – the hissing and whining became ever more forceful, insistent, like an endlessly repeated question.
More probing, and then the voices lowered, punctuated by pauses and different inflections. The pain that he felt at his temple moved to the centre of his skull, and then . . .
‘Ugly hairless creature; your shape disgusts me. All apes are long dead. From where do you come?’
Arn’s first thought was that the pain had caused him to pass out and he was just dreaming. Or worse – that it had sent him insane. Perhaps that was it? Whatever happened in the acceleration room at Fermilab had rendered him insane, and this wasn’t happening at all? He giggled deliriously at the creature’s flattened face.
The thing started talking again, but this time its eyes were closed, and the words didn’t seem meant for him.
‘This one has travelled far. Strange mind, complex mind, toolmaker, war maker. Not fully grown yet – almost, but not yet.’ It opened its eyes and leaned in close. ‘Are you ape?’ The claws sunk deeper. ‘Where do you come from, ape? What do they call you?’
The pain in the centre of Arn’s head turned to fire, and he felt blood stream from his nostrils.
The claws dug deeper, the questions repeated.
Arn screamed out his answer, ‘I hear you, I hear you!’ He grimaced and spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Not an ape; I’m a man.’
‘No!’ The creature spat this into his face, and then turned and hissed the words, ‘This ape is a liar’. It spun back and growled into Arn’s face with such hatred, that he tried to shrink back into the frame that held him.
‘Man is gone. Man is long dead.’
The creature once again held the diamond in front of Arn’s face. ‘What is the blood stone for?’
Arn nodded, summoning as much warmth as he could. ‘It’s for you . . . a gift.’
The creature snorted derisively, turned to drop the stone and snatched up Arn’s pocketknife and held it in front of him, while keeping its other claws embedded in his temple. ‘And what is this? Is this a weapon?’
Arn tried to shake his head. ‘No, just a sort of . . . tool.’
‘More lies. Make it work for us, ape.’ The old creature pushed the knife into one of Arn’s hands. Then he frowned and leaned forward to sniff him. ‘I sense a kinship with the Wolfen on him.’ The thing growled, and dug deeper with its claws – this time it seemed, just to inflict pain.
Arn cried out and tried to pull away. Tears were rolling down his face. ‘Not lying . . . I don’t know what a Wolfen is. I’m not an ape; my name is Arnold Singer, and I’m . . .’
The creature jerked upright. Arn suddenly felt like a door had been opened, and he was suddenly able to see back into the dark corridors of the creature’s mind.
Arn flexed his thoughts, and saw the creature wince. The doorway to its mind had been opened a crack – he now kicked it wide. He saw an army of the small yellow-eyed creatures who had captured him; behind them were other terrifying beasts, similar in shape to the creatures, but many times larger. There were thousands of them – brutish and powerful, and thirsty for blood and war.
Shock was written momentarily on his interrogator’s furred features, and Arn felt its claws withdraw, sliding out from beneath his skin. The slitted eyes were now wide, but not with hatred. Arn sensed something far more primal in them – perhaps even fear.
‘Impossible. Not Sigarr. Not the Arnoddr-Sigarr.’
Arn felt blood trickle down the side of his face, and watched numbly as the other hooded creatures joined the old sorcerer. All were now highly animated by the mention of this name. Strangely, Arn could still understand them all. Whatever the vile thing had done to him, its effects seemed permanent.
One of the hooded creatures pointed at Arn. ‘Make the link again – ask it when the war will come. If there be victory, will it be ours? If it truly is the Arnoddr, it will know.’
Arn closed his eyes. So they didn’t know that somehow the link remained. A complex mind, the thing had said of him. Perhaps more complex than you realise, Arn thought.
He listened. They called themselves Panterran. And they had a hatred and distrust for almost everything – but none more so than for a race they called the Wolfen.
The old Panterran looked at Arn, its goblin-like features twisted into slyness.
‘No more link; it hurts with this one. Not like Panterran or Wolfen mind. I will open the ape and read our future from its entrails.’ It gave a small whining chuckle. ‘We will save the extra meat for our giant friends.’
Arn gulped, and gripped the pocketknife in his fist, praying the pain from the last link had caused the old Panterran to overlook it.
Another Panterran burst in among the group, and after looking scornfully at Arn for a second while it caught its breath, spoke a single word: ‘Wolfen.’
The old Panterran hissed. At its orders, the small, deformed-looking creatures began grabbing bows and arrows, and curved swords like scimitars.
‘Take the Lygon, but be sure to bring me one of the Wolfen alive – all others are to be killed. Information and secrecy are our weapons now.’ The old Panterran turned briefly to Arn and looked him up and down, its mouth twisting in disgust. It picked up some of Arn’s shredded clothing and threw it across his face.
‘Your hairless form is repulsive . . . but your face truly sickens me.’
You should talk, you ugly freak! Arn screamed the retort in his mind, but kept still and silent as he heard the old creature rush to join the others.
He fiddled with the knife in his hand, his sweaty palm making it difficult, but he needed to hurry. He didn’t think digging around in his entrails sounded like something he wanted to hang around for. He tested his bonds. Gotta get out of here. Now!
Chapter 9
Fenrir Watches Us All
The four Wolfen, three adults and one youth, moved silently through the deeper parts of the forest, pausing from time to time to lift their heads in the air, or get down close to the ground to examine some minor disturbance to the soil or grass.
Isingarr, their senior warrior, held up one hand and remained stock-still. His ears were erect and pointing forward. The tip of one of them was missing, and a long scar ran down the side of his face, the result of a previous battle. The others held their ground and waited.
His eyes were unblinking as they scanned the forest ahead, and a low, almost imperceptible rumble came from deep in his chest. Immediately, his two adult companions joined him, drawing long silver blades that glinted in the shaded gloom.
Isingarr spoke over his shoulder. ‘I fear we may be late in rejoining the Valkeryn pack this eve.’ He drew his own blade as the stillness of the dense forest was broken. Their ears twitched at the soft hissing and whining that echoed both low to the ground and high in the trees – all around them.
Isingarr turned to one of the warriors. ‘Ussen, you will escort our ward back to Valkeryn. Turok and I will give you some time – use it well.’
Ussen stared hard at Isingarr for a second, looking like he wanted to disobey the command to leave his leader, before nodding once. Behind him, the young Wolfen began to protest, and Ussen sheathed his sword, just as an arrow took him in the neck. He coughed hard and went to his knees, then fell forward to the ground and lay still.
Isingarr noted the accuracy of the fatal bolt, bared his teeth and roared his anger. Then he pulled the small warrior back behind himself and raised his sword. ‘Slinkers. Visors down.’
With a clank, the warriors lowered their visors and raised their swords. More arrows flew out of the dark, bouncing off their armour. There was movement at the forest’s edge, and more hissing and whining, then a roar that shook the trees all around them.
‘Som
ething else comes.’ Isingarr gripped his sword so hard his hand began to shake.
The smaller Wolfen whimpered. Isingarr grabbed his forearm. ‘Steady yourself, young one; it will be over soon. Remember who you are.’
He looked down and held the young Wolfen’s gaze with his own. Then he banged one of his gauntleted fists against the raised wolf crest on the smaller warrior’s chest. ‘Fenrir watches us all.’ After a moment, the smaller warrior nodded.
Isingarr grunted in approval and then turned back to the dark forest, yelling to the giant shadows bearing down on them, ‘For Grimvaldr, and for Valkeryn!’
He heard the answering clang of fist on steel beside him, and the ferocious growls of the two remaining Wolfen preparing for battle. His own growls turned into a roar, and his fist tightened on his sword as he raised the mighty weapon.
Isingarr knew they would die this day, but their enemies would just as surely know that they had met Wolfen warriors in battle, and paid a heavy price for that misfortune.
Giant figures rose around them, and the three Wolfen leapt to meet them.
*****
Arn heard the commotion in the camp as the Panterran returned. Long yowls of triumph were accompanied by an eerie howling, like hundreds of cats singing at midnight.
Too soon, Arn thought. He still hadn’t come close to freeing himself. He lay back and waited.
Something heavy was thrown onto the rack beside him, and it grunted as if in pain. Though his face was still covered with his shredded clothes, Arn smelled new odours – blood, fur, and something strangely like cinnamon. He also sensed something else, which, in an odd way, comforted him, reminded him of home.
He heard the voice of the old Panterran again – the new captive must have been undergoing the same sort of interrogation he’d had. The old creature asked its questions again and again, and though there were moments of silence when Arn felt the vile old thing was pulling its answers directly from the mind of the new captive, the other never spoke a word.
