Return of the Ancients

by Greig Beck

Grimson looked at the top of Arn’s head and pulled a face. ‘Yuck.’

  Arn laughed again. ‘Thank heavens for hats.’

  ‘Your eyes are so black. Are they hard to see out of?’

  The queen called to her son. Grimson let go of Arn’s hand, and on his jacket Arn noticed the same silver, snarling wolf crest. It was also the same image pressed onto the ring that Eilif had given him. He felt his pocket – it was still there. He’d return it later, when he saw her again.

  As Arn walked beside the youth, he pointed to the crest. ‘What does this mean? Is it your . . . ahh, house badge?’

  Grimson looked shocked. ‘Of course – it is the crest of the house of Grimvaldr. The royal crest.’

  Arn nodded. You have friends in high places, he remembered Birna telling him.

  Grimson stopped and pointed to Arn’s chest. ‘You wear it because you saved Eilif’s life. And for that, you are under Grimvaldr’s protection.’

  He motioned Arn closer, who leaned down expecting the young Wolfen to whisper something to him. Instead, Grimson reached up and touched his cheek, then his nose, pinching it.

  ‘Ouch!’

  Grimson ignored him and lifted Arn’s upper lip to peer at his teeth.

  ‘Loki’s beard! Everything is so small. How do you fit food in there?’

  Arn laughed. ‘We cut it into small pieces first.’

  Grimson looked shocked at the concept. ‘I can’t wait to see that . . . Arn. You can be seated next to me. Let’s go; I starve.’ He took Arn’s forearm again, and led him towards the open double doors.

  Chapter 15

  Not All Wolfen Were Honourable

  Orcalion watched the execution with pitiless eyes. The Panterran soldiers who had allowed the prisoners to escape were quickly beheaded, and the bodies would be dragged deep into the forest for the night beasts to tear to shreds. Incompetence was not tolerated among Panterran warriors.

  Time was growing short, and the Lygon were becoming harder to control. Their common ancestry bound them to the Panterran – but only loosely. The monstrous brutes were unpredictable, and could easily turn against them if their lust for carnage wasn’t sated.

  He looked down at the bloody bag at his feet. The Wolfen scouts they captured had refused to talk – not a single word or scream of pain. He knew he had hurt them; he had taken his time. He narrowed his yellow eyes as if willing it to speak, to reveal the hated creatures’ secrets. It worried him that these Wolfen had such strong hearts, their honour a shield against his torture. The bag held only the trophies he had removed from them. He grinned, baring his needle-like teeth. Others’ agony was satisfying and information was vital for the coming war – torture worked on some, but not all. Other sources were needed. Not all Wolfen were honourable. You just needed to find the right ones, and use the right methods.

  The Panterran slung the bag over his shoulder and walked back to the camp. His spies had already found out that the Man-kind had made it to Valkeryn, and King Grimvaldr was calling it an omen for the Wolfen. There was no doubt: the Man-kind arriving, at this of all times, was a sign – but for whom, and of what?

  Orcalion cursed the executed Panterran again for allowing the hairless creature to escape before he had a chance to interrogate him personally. He needed the information the creature held – in its mind, or in its guts – either would do. And he meant to get it.

  It was time to pay the Wolfen a visit.

  Chapter 16

  Sterkest Slag

  Arn sat at one end of an enormous horseshoe-shaped wooden table. Close to fifty Canites sat around it with Grimvaldr and Freya – as he had learned the queen was named – at its centre. Eilif sat next to her, requested that Arn be seated nearer as well, but the queen quickly overruled her. It seemed that order of nobility determined where one sat. At least I have Grimson close by, Arn thought. The young Wolfen now saw himself as a Man-kind expert, and had appointed himself Arn’s tutor and cultural guide. Perhaps as an heir to the throne, he could choose wherever he wanted to sit, or he just wanted to be further from his mother’s watchful eye.

  Arn watched as dozens of attendants brought huge platters of food. He could see now why the table had its shape – the attendants were able to supply food and drink from the front, without having to reach over any shoulders.

  Grimson kept up his high-pitched commentary, pointing to different male and female Wolfen and telling Arn who they were and what role they played in the kingdom. As a bonus, Arn also got to hear who had bad breath, who cheated at cards, and who was rumoured to love-chase someone other than his or her life mate.

  Arn noticed that the other guests took the opportunity to sneak glances at him, but most looked away quickly when Arn caught their eye. Most, but not all: there was one older Wolfen – an advisor to the king, said Grimson – who went by the name of Vulpernix, who held his gaze. Grimson called him White-eye due to his having one milky, dead eye, and his stare made Arn feel a little creeped out. After a few moments, it was Arn who had to look away.

  Arn decided to see if he could find other, friendlier faces along the table. Eilif was seated next to the king and queen, and immediately waved to him when she saw him glance in her direction. She then pointed to the different plates of food on the table, then back at Arn – he guessed she was trying to give him her opinion on which he’d most enjoy . . . Or was it the ones better avoided? I’ll soon find out, he thought.

  At last, the king raised his enormous tankard, and the table fell silent. Even the attendants froze, as if they were automatons suddenly powered off. Grimvaldr looked first down one length of the long table, and then the next. He nodded to each of his guests, and also to Grimson and Arn when he reached them.

  Arn noticed Grimson nod in return, and he quickly did the same. The king then lifted his tankard even higher, and spoke to the group in a deep and strong voice that carried to every corner of the large room.

  ‘In the beginning, there was the light – and from it came Fenrir and the Guardians. May they look over us, and all our charges, until the end of all time.’

  As one, the crowd responded, ‘Until the end of all time. Long live the king.’

  Cups were raised, emptied, and then slammed down. Only then did the guests reach for the food.

  Grimson grabbed several huge chunks of meat and dropped them onto his plate. He then paused to watch Arn, obviously intrigued as to what he would choose.

  Arn looked at each of the platters – meat, meat, and more meat. Great slabs of what had to be pork, beef, lamb, and poultry – the selection was enormous. Thankfully, it was all cooked, but though he was far from being a vegetarian, he knew for his own health he needed some sort of fruit or vegetables. Looking down the table, he spied a large bowl that was filled with what he could only describe as lawn clippings.

  He nudged Grimson and turned in time to see him stuff a fist-sized chunk of red meat into his mouth. Arn grimaced at the blatant reminder that these things were not people like him at all. He pointed at the grass-filled bowl down the table. ‘What’s that?’

  Grimson half stood and looked down the table. He waved an attendant over to request the bowl be brought nearer. Once it was set down, he grabbed a pinch and pushed it into one corner of his already full mouth. He spoke while chewing. ‘Gronus shoots – they’re for digestion, stomach complaints . . . and also act as an expungent.’

  He pushed the bowl towards Arn.

  Expungent? Oookay, I think I know what that means . . . An image of a dog vomiting up grass onto the carpet leapt into his mind. Erk . . .

  Arn pushed the bowl back. ‘So, meat it is, then.’

  He slipped the silver dagger from its scabbard, and used it to spear a piece of the red meat Grimson was enjoying. He put it on his plate, and sliced the chunk into smaller pieces. Spearing one of the slices, he put it in his mouth. It was delicious – tender and slightly salty. He couldn’t quite place it – a little like fillet steak and bacon all in one. He speared another piece, holding it
aloft while he chewed.

  He noticed a quiet had fallen over the table – no sounds of talking, eating, plates being rattled, or even tankards slamming down onto the wood. He looked around. All eyes were on him – or rather, the piece of meat speared on his knife.

  Arn guessed everyone had been waiting to see exactly how he ate . . . especially with his small-sized teeth and mouth.

  Feeling self-conscious, Arn raised his free hand, made an ‘O’ with his thumb and forefinger, and said, ‘Delicious.’

  The king nodded and repeated the gesture back to Arn. Eilif had pulled her blade, and sat next to the queen holding aloft a speared chunk of meat.

  Arn smiled and waved to her, but the queen reached across to make her lower her dagger. Arn guessed, judging by the expression of displeasure on the queen’s face, that Eilif was also receiving a scolding. Beside him, Grimson was also spearing his meat.

  Arn smiled. Hey, I’m making an impression already, he thought.

  Having piled the table high with food, the attendants returned with all manner of boxes, pipes, stringed objects and what looked like shallow drums. Sitting on the floor in the middle of the table area, they began to play music. Arn winced; to his ears, the music was strange, with discordant notes that usually ended with one or several of the musicians lifting his or her head, and emitting a long, mournful howl.

  Arn laughed behind his hand. Guess some things never change, he thought.

  The remaining attendants brought around large earthenware jugs containing a dark liquid that smelled like herbs in ale. Arn poured himself half a mug.

  He lifted it and sniffed. The soft curl of warm spices tickled his nose. He shrugged. When in Rome, he thought.

  He lifted the mug to his lips – nearly gagged, and had to secretly let the liquid dribble back into the cup, trying hard not to allow the contents of his stomach to follow. It was so bitter and so vile, he wondered briefly whether it was supposed to be some sort of cleaning fluid. Arn quickly pushed another small piece of meat into his mouth to try and remove the lingering taste – it didn’t work.

  Beside him, Grimson kept up a constant stream of questions: about his home, his family, his weapon of choice – to which Arn simply answered, hockey stick, to the youth’s bewilderment. His curiosity then turned to how fast Arn could run, climb, or jump over things. It seemed the young Wolfen was competitive; it wasn’t long before his questions morphed into his boasting to Arn about his own physical capabilities.

  Arn looked around the long table. Everything was so strange, yet so familiar. The Wolfen slumped in their seats, belching loudly, slapping each other’s shoulders and laughing – perhaps ruminating over the day’s events, or those still to come. Though the scene looked medieval, it was so . . . normal. It was easy to forget that these beings were wolves, or at least descended from them.

  Arn also leaned back in his chair. Ape, the vile Panterran had called him. Was he so different, then? Perhaps what he was seeing was not so fantastic after all.

  He looked up at one of the hall’s high windows just as the moon appeared from behind the clouds. The night made him feel good, the moon even better. Guess, I’m a night person now, he thought, just as the king raised his hand to silence his guests.

  ‘Young Man-kind, it is said you have a mighty arm, even though you yourself have professed to not being of warrior stock. Is this a truth?’

  Arn cautiously nodded, not sure exactly what he was being asked. He looked to Eilif, who mouthed something to him. Was it an encouragement . . . or a warning?

  The king must have sensed his uncertainty, and added, ‘To make war on a jormungandr by oneself, let alone to crack its hide, usually takes Wolfen steel and a mighty arm – or many mighty arms. But I have been told that you managed to do both with little more than a length of bone. How is this possible, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’

  Arn felt the moon’s glow on the back of his neck, the energy it gave him. Was his unnatural strength due to the silver orb being so close to the Earth now? Was its gravity somehow affecting him? How could he explain it, when he didn’t understand it himself? He didn’t try.

  ‘Ahh, baseball . . . and a lot of luck, I guess.’ Arn shrugged. There was silence as the crowd obviously expected more from him than just some obscure and alien term that no one in the room understood. ‘It’s a game we play, where we throw a ball really hard to another player who has a bat – ahh, a long piece of wood . . . Anyway, it’s his job to hit the ball. Gives you strength.’

  Grimson whispered, ‘I could try that, if you show me.’

  The king leaned forward. ‘And this baseball teaches you how to put so much power into a blow, it can put crushing dents into the armour of the strongest beast in this land?’ He looked along the table to where Andrejk sat with his stitched forehead. ‘And also bash in a Wolfen helmet . . . and head, as well.’

  The guests laughed at the king’s jibe. Andrejk joined in, and lifted his mug in a toast.

  The king’s face suddenly became serious. He motioned with one arm for Arn to stand.

  Arn rose slowly to his feet. ‘Baseball teaches you to throw straight, but as for cracking the creature’s armour, I just think I must have been lucky enough to hit it in a weak spot.’

  ‘A weak spot? Hmm.’ The king turned to Strom and nodded. In response, the giant warrior stood, pushing back his chair, its feet grating loudly in the now silent room. He walked slowly around the table, his eyes fixed on Arn.

  Grimson nudged Arn and whispered, ‘He wants to fight you.’

  ‘What?’ Arn hadn’t taken his eyes off the enormous warrior as he approached.

  Strom stood in front of him, fists planted on his hips, his deep voice ringing out strongly, ‘There are no weak spots on the jormungandr, young Man-kind. I saw the rents in the thing’s skin – there were several. Several times lucky? I think not even once.’

  Arn was still on his feet, but his legs shook and demanded that he sit back down. He started to sink, and looked from Strom to the king, and then to Eilif, who appeared as worried as he felt.

  Strom boomed again, ‘Man-kind, it is honourable for a warrior to be modest. It is not, if one is concealing something.’ He raised one of his huge arms, motioning for Arn to join him at the centre of the room.

  Arn swallowed. ‘I’m not concealing anything.’ His voice sounded squeaky, even to himself. I am definitely not fighting this guy, today or any day, he thought.

  ‘Approach, Man-kind; I do not bite.’ He grinned, his sharp teeth suggesting otherwise.

  Arn still didn’t budge.

  Strom looked to the king, awaiting a sign. The king smiled, lifted his tankard and drank, looking down into its depths for a second or two. He spoke softly.

  ‘Sterkest slag.’

  A roar went up around the table, and the Wolfen started to bang their mugs on the wood and chant. Sterkest slag – sterkest slag – sterkest slag . . .

  Grimson gripped Arn’s forearm, ‘Sterkest slag!’ Looking down at the youth, Arn could see the young Wolfen’s eyes were alight with anticipation.

  ‘What’s . . .?’

  There was a distant rhythmic sound of creaking wheels as the attendants returned. This time, there were no musical instruments, food, or beer brought forth. Instead, a trolley containing two tree stumps was dragged to the centre of the room. Both were about three feet in height, extremely solid and freshly cut.

  A bench was also carried through by four more attendants, and laid close by. On the bench lay a pair of large, single-bladed axes. They looked heavy; even the four-foot handles appeared to be made of iron. Many of the Wolfen cheered and clapped, and started to chant Strom’s name. Some raised their hands and looked to the king, as if asking for something, or vying for his attention.

  ‘Sterkest slag – strongest blow,’ Grimson explained. ‘Go.’ He pushed Arn forward.

  Ah crap; what the hell have I got myself into? Arn stepped out from behind the table and slowly walked to the centre of the room, feeling the weight of
the dozens of eyes upon him. Strongest blow – he felt he had walked into some jock’s football test, except instead of facing the high-school quarterback, he knew he was about to be asked to challenge a creature more than a head taller than he was, and probably twice as wide.

  He heard a voice above the chanting crowd – not calling Strom’s name, but his own. It was Eilif. She cheered and made a small fist in the air.

  ‘Strongest blow.’ Grimson appeared at his side and looked at Strom with admiration. ‘Strom always wins; no one is stronger in the kingdom.’

  Arn bent down slightly, and whispered, ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  Grimson pointed to the tree stumps. ‘You need to sink the axe deep into the wood – the winner is whoever has buried their axe head the deepest.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Arn straightened, feeling safer now that he knew he didn’t have to try to swing the huge weapon at the giant Strom . . . or worse, having the king’s champion swing an axe at him.

  Grimson looked at Arn’s arms and shoulders. ‘I like you, Arnoddr, but I don’t think you’ll win today.’

  ‘I don’t really think I’m supposed to. But hey, who cares?’ Arn shrugged, now willing to play along.

  ‘You might care. The winner is sometimes allowed to pick another challenge. Strom usually likes the punching contest.’

  ‘Oh great, that sounds like fun as well.’ Arn shook his head. ‘I wish I could at least see it done first, so I don’t totally humiliate myself.’

  Grimson nodded and looked to the king. ‘Demonstration, father?’

  Eilif seconded the request. ‘Yes, a demonstration of the art of sterkest slag by one of the elite!’ There were mutters around the able, and Eilif added loudly, ‘A dozen sølvs on the Arnoddr.’

  For a moment, there was silence, then a burst of activity as bets were shouted from one end of the table to the other. Arn could hear they were nearly all for Strom, with a few extremely small wagers on him . . . and only because the odds against him winning were so great.