by Greig Beck
A young warrior with almost jet black fur spoke up loudly above the excited babbling of the crowd, ‘A thousand sølvs on the king’s champion.’
The bet’s effect was instantaneous – silence, followed by a roar of applause.
Even Grimvaldr shook his head. ‘A fortune, Bergborr, and one that no one will dare to claim.’
‘I’ll take that bet.’
Like a beast with many heads, the crowd turned as one to gaze in the direction of the voice. It was Balthazar. The old Wolfen looked first at Bergborr, then at Arn. His wise old eyes had a look of understanding that made Arn think he knew more than he was letting on.
‘Done.’ Bergborr banged his tankard down, his expression now as dark as his fur. Arn wondered whether he had expected no takers for his huge bet. But now he would make or lose a fortune this day.
The king banged a fist down onto the table, making the remaining plates and cups rattle and jump. The crowd settled and turned towards him.
Grimvaldr looked up and down the table, taking in each of his diners’ faces. ‘I will allow Arnoddr a demonstration. We must give the Man-kind some time to gather his strength, seeing there is so much coin riding on it.’
He continued to scan the assembled faces, stopping at a large young warrior. He nodded to him. ‘Sorenson, stand and show us your arm.’
The young warrior whooped and stood up from the table. He raced around behind all the other seated Wolfen, occasionally patting one on the shoulder, or pushing a head forward good naturedly. Arn liked him already.
Sorenson was tall, but still many inches shorter than Strom, and as he approached the centre of the room, the king’s champion threw back his head, and laughed heartily.
‘You, little brother? I should have known.’ He and Strom punched knuckles in a gesture that was eerily familiar to Arn, and reminded him of the camaraderie displayed at a million sporting events he had seen back home.
Strom bowed theatrically and motioned with his hand towards the axes – the first choice was to be the challenger’s. Sorenson nodded and walked to the bench. He selected an axe, and judging by the way he dragged it from the table, Arn could tell it must have been extremely heavy.
Sorenson walked back towards Arn, and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Use the force of the swing, and never ease your grip,’ he said, his sharp eyes examining Arn’s face. ‘And beware the impact; it has broken many a strong Wolfen’s arm, whose hand was loose.’
He walked away before Arn could thank him, and positioned himself in front of one of the stumps. Spreading his legs, he allowed the axe to lean against his thigh for a moment as he wiped his hands up the length of his pants. His fingers flexed and closed around the steel, getting a feel for it. Cheers and jeers came from the crowd, and Grimvaldr sat back smiling, his arms folded.
Sorenson looked to the king, who nodded once. The young Wolfen started inhaling and exhaling – slowly at first, then faster and deeper. Then he let out a mighty yell and swung the axe in an arc from the floor, over his head, and then down onto the centre of the stump. The strike echoed around the stone room, and was only drowned out by the cheers of the seated Wolfen.
Arn had expected the wood to be cleaved in two, but it must have been like the toughest ironbark, as the axe only penetrated to about a third of the way. Sorenson raised both hands in the air, obviously satisfied with his swing. Strom raised his eyebrows, showing he was impressed with his younger brother’s arm.
Then came the chant: Strom – Strom – Strom . . . The king’s champion bowed and walked purposefully towards the bench, taking up the other axe and swinging it back and forth one handed, the heavy weapon somehow looking smaller and lighter in the giant Wolfen’s grip. He rolled his shoulders and looked to the king, waiting.
The king nodded. Strom turned to the stump and started to growl low and deep. The crowd fell silent. Even among his kinsmen, he was a fearsome sight. When he roared, it made Arn cringe slightly. He lifted the axe and swung it.
The blade buried itself more than two thirds of the way down into the iron-hard wood. Arn had felt a shudder from the impact as it travelled from the axe to the stump, and then down through the heavy stone floor.
There were gasps, then cheers and applause. Strom released the handle and turned to the king, first bowing to him, and then to his opponent. As he straightened, he held out his hand. Sorenson laughed and grabbed the forearm of the large Wolfen. Strom in turn gripped the shoulder of his younger brother, and spoke with a smile. ‘Next time.’
Sorenson nodded and spoke softly, ‘Probably not until you are an old Wolfen, I think.’ He returned to his seat, getting slapped on the back by many of the seated warriors as he passed by them.
The two stumps were left side by side – Sorenson’s axe buried about a third of the way down, and Strom’s more than double that.
The familiar creak of wheels from behind Arn heralded the arrival of another two stumps and axes. Grimson nudged him. ‘Your turn, Arnoddr. Just use your baseball magic again.’ He gave Arn a gentle shove.
Reluctantly, Arn stepped forward. As he stood by Strom’s side, there was another furious round of betting. Arn guessed that the sight of him, next to the massive bulk of the king’s champion, inspired renewed confidence in those who were betting against him. He could also see that Bergborr now had a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
Arn turned to Strom, who bowed to him. As before, the giant motioned towards the axes. Arn looked to Eilif who had her hands clasped together in front of her chin, looking like she was ready to start praying. She mouthed something he couldn’t understand.
Arn flashed her a tight smile, drew in a deep breath and walked like a condemned man to the bench. He examined the enormous weapons laid out there; to his eye, there was no difference between them, and he placed his hand on the closest.
His heart raced in his chest, as he picked up the axe. Surprisingly, it was light . . . in fact, much lighter than he expected. He knew it shouldn’t have been; he had seen Sorenson, and even Strom, straining to lift it. Was he once again under the influence of the strange energy the giant moon seemed to be affording him? The thick blade was carved with runes, and its polished surface threw back a distorted image of his face. I look sick, he thought.
Arn turned and walked back to the stumps. He carried his axe in one hand, and even managed to spin it slightly in his grip. Strom raised an eyebrow and stepped back to give him room. He placed his hands on his hips, and a smile broke across his face. He looked like he was enjoying the challenge.
Arn rested the axe head on top of the stump, and took a few deep breaths. Sorenson’s words drifted back into his head: use the force of the swing . . . and beware the impact.
He felt calm; he was ready. He looked to the king.
Grimvaldr was smiling, and Eilif now stood behind him, her hand gripping his shoulder in anticipation. The king nodded once.
Arn turned back to the stump. In his mind, he saw himself lifting the axe and swinging it with all the strength he could muster. It would be just like being at a carnival and swinging the wooden mallet to try to drive the puck all the way to the bell at the top of the pole.
I can do this, he thought. I can ring the bell.
He raised the axe over his head, and swung.
It passed cleanly through the stump and buried itself deep in the floor beneath it. The clang of steel on stone was startlingly loud, and many of the warriors leapt to their feet to obtain a better view.
The two halves of the large stump teetered, then toppled over.
Arn let go of the axe handle and stepped back, as surprised as anyone else. No one said a word; perhaps they were waiting to see how Strom would react to being beaten, and by a creature much smaller than himself.
A single pair of hands applauded him – it was Eilif. Arn felt a small hand on his forearm, and looked down to see Grimson staring wide eyed up at him.
‘I knew you could do it. You must teach me this baseball m
agic, Arnoddr.’
A huge hand grabbed his other arm and raised it into the air. Strom turned him to the king and roared, ‘A mighty arm on this one indeed!’
Strom felt the muscles up and down Arn’s arm and shoulder, as if searching for some secret, some hidden muscles. He gave up and leaned forward. ‘And you must teach me as well, Man-kind.’
At last the crowd found their voice, and one by one the Wolfen got to their feet and clapped. Many rounded the table to speak to Arn, or to Strom, or simply to see the axe embedded in the stone floor.
Grimvaldr also nodded his approval, and the queen hung onto Eilif to ensure she didn’t run over in a manner that might have been undignified for a daughter of royalty.
But there was one Wolfen who remained seated. The dark-furred Bergborr looked sullenly over his mug. It had been a mighty blow to the stump, but a mighty blow to his purse as well.
Strom still hadn’t released Arn’s arm, and gave it one last tug, almost lifting the other off his feet. He slapped Arn on the shoulder and said to the room, ‘Imagine if we could get this Man-kind to wield a sword?’
Eilif, at last breaking away from her mother, shouted, ‘He would be a mighty warrior in the defence of Valkeryn!’
The king scratched his chin. ‘Hmm, just so. What say you, Arnoddr-Sigarr; would you wish to learn more about the Wolfen ways – learn to become a brother warrior?’
The room fell silent again. Everyone waited for Arn’s response.
‘I’m not sure – I mean, I guess. I’m not really a fighter. I might just get in the way . . .’
The king raised his hands. ‘We are born with two strong arms, fang and claw, and more importantly with honour and courage. But what good are they, if they are never used to defend your home, your kin, or your Wolfen pack? We all must fight – the safety of the realm depends on it.’
Arn nodded, and the king stood up. ‘Then it’s settled; we will teach you our ways, and in return you will teach us yours.’
Arn watched as the attendants dragged away the axes and stumps, and three of them leaned on the handle of his buried axe, finally levering it free after several attempts. Teach them my ways? What could I possibly teach them here and now? he wondered.
Eilif skipped around the outside of the huge table, clapping as she skipped, and stopped beside him, grabbing his hand. Arn felt something cold and wet press against his cheek, and turned to see her pulling her head back. The inside of her ears had gone pink, and she looked away with a shy smile.
‘You are already a champion, Arnoddr-Sigarr – king of the Man-kind.’
Arn smiled at her, but before he could thank her for the compliment, the queen dragged both her and Grimson from the room. As they left, Eilif looked back at him, mouthing something he couldn’t understand.
A mug of the vile ale was thrust into his hand, and he raised it in a toast, but only pretended to drink. Throwing up might not have been a good look at that moment. He now felt welcome among the Canite Wolfen – well, among most of them, anyway. The older Wolfen, Vulpernix – the milky-eyed one – sat staring stonily at him.
Arn stared back into the milky eye. So maybe not everyone’s a fan of baseball, he thought.
Chapter 17
Under the White Flag
Orcalion listened as the tall, hooded figure spoke softly from the shadows. The Panterran only interrupted him from time to time to ask a question, but for the most part he was struck silent by the recent occurrences in the Canite castle.
It seemed the Man-kind was growing in influence and support with each passing day, and once more Orcalion cursed the guards for allowing it to escape. He wished they were still alive, so he could torture and execute them all over again.
The tall figure stopped speaking, and waited. Orcalion could feel the other searching his face, perhaps looking for signs of deceit or treachery.
‘Remember our bargain, Orcalion – when the time comes to pass, I alone am to rule Valkeryn, with the Princess Eilif at my side.’
The old Panterran stared off into the distance. In turn, the tall figure reached out a hand, on which he wore a silver ring depicting a snarling wolf with emerald eyes. Quick as lightning, Orcalion turned on him, holding a wickedly curved blade up to his throat.
‘Never try to touch me again. I hear your words, and I remember our bargain well. You would open the deep gates and deliver up Grimvaldr to us. In return, we would give you his throne, and ensure all rivals for your new . . . queen, are gone. Just make sure you remain alive to claim them.’
He lowered the blade and glided a few steps away. ‘There is more work for you to do. The Man-kind makes things more . . . complicated. My queen wants this creature alive.’ He turned back to the hooded figure. ‘And you will assist in making that happen.’
‘That was not our bargain. Beware, little no-blinker, my desire for the throne does not make me your thrall, to be ordered about at will.’
The Panterran bared his needle-like teeth. ‘Since the Man-kind and the young female Wolfen escaped, the entire kingdom must now know of the approach of the Lygon.’ He rubbed his chin, his large yellow eyes slitted in contemplation. ‘Perhaps it is time to pay a visit, give them a reason to hand over the Man-kind . . . willingly.’ He laughed in an oily, wheezing fashion. ‘See that the Man-kind is not in the throne room when I arrive.’
Orcalion turned away then, but added over his shoulder, ‘This night passes, but I will be back soon . . . travelling under a white flag.’ He threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter 18
Fenrir’s Gift
Early the next morning, Sorenson led Arn out into one of the castle’s enclosed forecourts, where they were met by a large and enormously overweight Wolfen with a huge, soft leather roll at his feet.
‘Olaf.’ Sorenson bowed his head in acknowledgment.
The round Wolfen grunted and looked Arn up and down with a critical eye. He walked around him, prodding and poking, and tsk-tsking every few seconds – his chubby face bearing an expression as if he had just seen a spider on his piece of lunch-cake.
From his pocket, he produced a length of string knotted every inch or so along its length, and held it across Arn’s shoulders, ran it down his arm to his wrist, the length of his leg, and then wound it around his head.
Arn tried to keep still, but found it extremely unsettling when Olaf brought his long snout in close to Arn’s face, studying his features from one angle, then the next. Olaf shook his head and muttered something, probably about the dimensions of Arn’s head – or more likely, lack of them.
He stood back and nodded to Sorenson.
‘Good.’ Sorenson clapped his hands together and motioned with his head to the chubby Wolfen. ‘Olaf is the royal armourer and ironmonger. He’ll make some war armour for you. Today, we’ll just get a feel for the basic skills.’
‘Okay,’ Arn said, and Sorenson turned to the heavy Wolfen and spoke a few soft words that sounded like, korte sverd. Olaf knelt and unfastened the leather roll, laying it out to reveal a variety of swords and clubs – all wooden.
Arn stooped to pick up the biggest sword he could find. Before his fingers closed around its hilt, Olaf grabbed his hand, turned it over, and stuck a medium-sized sword into it. The ironmonger handed another to Sorenson. It seemed the choice of weapons had already been made.
Sorenson swished his sword back and forth in the air a few times, before turning to Arn. ‘The lesson for today is a simple one – don’t get hit.’
He pointed his sword at Arn’s throat. ‘A Wolfen must know how to strike well. But there is much more to fighting than that. What good is a strike, if you too are hit in a vital area? Even Strom might find it difficult to fight with the thinnest sword piercing his heart.’
Sorenson reached forward and grabbed Arn’s arm. ‘Having the strength to split a stump is a magnificent asset – especially when battling the likes of a jormungandr, werenbeasts, or even thylakines. But against a couple of small, fast-moving Panterran, you
’d be so full of holes, you’d leak like a fugl net.’
Sorenson placed his own sword under his arm so he could check Arn’s grip on the wooden weapon. He stood back and smiled.
‘Strength, endurance, skill and finesse – these are the things that bring a Wolfen home safely from battle. Any time the kingdom gets attacked by invading tree stumps, you’re the one I want next to me.’ He laughed and touched Arn’s sword with his own. ‘But in a real duel, against real foes, and to the death? We’ll see.’
He swished his sword through the air again. This time, Arn did the same, testing its weight, and how it felt in his grip. Following his triumphant splitting of the tree stump, he was feeling confident, certain he had the strength and speed to win. He liked Sorenson, so decided he’d take it easy on him and try not to embarrass the youthful warrior too much on this first session.
Sorenson saluted, touching the blade of his sword to his brow. In turn, Arn adopted a fencer’s pose, as he had seen a hundred times on television – side-on, legs apart, his sword pointed at the Wolfen warrior. His other arm was arched up above his head.
Sorenson laughed. ‘What is this? Do you wish to dance first, young Man-kind?’
With that, the Wolfen lunged at him, and Arn moved out of the way, bringing his sword around to where he expected Sorenson’s blade to be . . . Instead, he felt it crack across the backs of his knees, his legs buckling under him.
Arn blinked, his eyes focusing on the point of Sorenson’s blade, which was now under his chin. It was strange; the electrifying strength he had felt the evening before was not running through his body anymore. The Wolfen warrior lowered his sword, and held out his hand.
‘Maybe we should start with something a little simpler? Like how to balance while holding a sword.’
Arn grabbed the outstretched hand. ‘I can get this. Let’s do it again.’
