Return of the Ancients

by Greig Beck

  Becky noticed that there were now dozens of guards in every corridor of the facility, and many of the personnel wandered around in varying types of contamination suit.

  ‘Is there more radiation?’

  Harper walked to the large elevator doors at the far end of the reception area. He shook his head. ‘Not really. The anomaly has stabilised, and is giving off mild gamma radiation and traces of X-rays, but nothing that needs any more than normal shielding.’

  Becky looked back at the spacesuits and raised her eyebrows. Harper avoided her stare.

  She followed him along the sterile corridor to the observation room – a room that she was growing to loathe. There were significantly more military personnel, scientists and equipment than last time. Things are finally happening, she thought.

  From somewhere below them there was an irritating grinding, which sounded like a giant getting some dental work. Harper pushed open the observation room’s door, and Becky entered, nodding and mouthing hello to the technicians and scientists she recognised.

  The sound of the grinding was muffled inside the room, but she was still aware of it, and could even feel the mechanical vibrations beneath her feet.

  Harper motioned to two chairs set up in front of a bank of screens. One was focused on the accelerator’s particle collision point; through a cloud of concrete dust, the next screen showed a wall into which a machine was drilling a hole five feet in diameter. Its movements mirrored the vibrations.

  Harper motioned with his head. ‘That’s what you can feel beneath your feet. We can’t wait for something to happen anymore, when there is a real and imminent threat from the anomaly.’

  He looked at her with sad eyes. ‘To be candid, if we could simply close the distortion hole, we would. If we thought we could pour a thousand tons of concrete over it, we would. Neither option is possible. You see, one of the reasons we think the anomaly will not close is due to the theory of universal balance. Matter cannot be destroyed; it can only be transferred into a different state – solid to liquid, liquid to gas. Even ripping and shredding particles like we do here only creates different types of particles. What we think has happened is that Mr. Singer has been ejected from our dimension. To where or when, we don’t know. But because he no longer exists in our universe, there was an imbalance created . . . and the anomaly wouldn’t close until that balance had been restored.’

  Becky searched his face. ‘So you need to bring him back? You have to bring him back?’

  Harper shook his head. ‘Maybe if we brought him back within the first few seconds he disappeared. But now, the more matter that passes through, even if that matter is dust or even particles of light, the less chance of ever correcting the imbalance. Instead we believe we need to refire the laser . . . but first we need to find the laser acceleration diamond and we think Mr Singer has it with him. We just need to find him first.’

  He examined her face. ‘Tell me. If Arn found himself in a strange place, maybe somewhere totally alien, what do you think he’d do?’

  Becky snorted. ‘He’d go exploring.’

  Harper exhaled wearily. ‘Oh great; so the sooner we find him the better.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘The acceleration chamber has become magnetically sealed by the disturbance, so we’re cutting our way in – right through eight feet of reinforced concrete. Once that’s done, we’ll fire a probe into the hole and try to take some readings.’

  ‘Can I be here when you do?’

  Again, Harper looked at her sadly. ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, but that’s something that will be restricted.’

  Becky’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Are you kidding? I need to be here! I’m his friend . . .’ She reached into her pocket and switched on her phone.

  Harper had already turned away. ‘It’s because you’re his friend that you can’t be here. We must face the fact that where he went might be an airless vacuum, or hotter than hell, or have a crushing gravity . . . For all we know, Arnold Singer may have been dead for weeks.’

  Chapter 22

  Wait . . . It’s Arrived

  Harper watched the test with bated breath.

  The bicycle-wheel-sized craft lifted from the ground on four rotational fans, like a miniature hovercraft – noiseless and sleek. The aerial mobile camera was modelled on deep-sea technology, except its housing didn’t need to be armour-plated against water pressure, so strength and durability could be traded off for mobility and speed.

  Harper almost applauded as the machine remained suspended about six feet from the ground.

  The four near-silent fan-blades were recessed in a broad, flat housing that made it look like a bulbous stingray. Gyroscopic assistance gave it incredible stability – it could hover motionless, even in a near hurricane, and bank and fly as swiftly as a bird of prey . . . well, a very fast pigeon, anyway. The front housed a large glass lens behind which sat the camera with an illuminated ring around it. It looked like a floating eye, in which a bottomless glass pupil was ringed by an iris of light.

  Its miniaturised battery pack contained enough energy to run a small building, and allow the craft to run for at least forty-eight hours. It also powered the digital image feed and recorders. There was no guarantee anything at all would be delivered back to them, or for that matter that the device would survive the trip, but they didn’t have a lot of options. This would have to do.

  Harper grunted his approval. ‘Ready as we’ll ever be. Okay, let’s take her in.’

  The pilot ran his hand over his keyboard, giving each of the fans some extra thrust, and the craft lifted higher into the air. He turned one of the twin joysticks slightly and it spun slowly to line up with the freshly cut hole in the wall, now a dark tunnel leading to a lighter exit. Another technician focused the camera, and the image zoomed to the far end of the small tunnel. The craft entered, navigating the space with ease, emerging to hover just beside the smudge that hung in the air like steam over an air vent.

  ‘On your order, sir.’

  Harper rubbed his hands together and leaned forward on the desk. ‘Proceed, four knots.’

  The small craft glided to within an inch of the smudge of nothingness. Harper held his breath. A slight push on the joystick . . . and the craft leapt forward, as if being snatched up and swallowed. The data screens showed the device was still moving at a leisurely four knots, but the image feed indicated acceleration that was beyond comprehension.

  Harper found it hard to continue watching the screen, as vertigo was making him feel giddy and nauseous. He turned to yell over his shoulder, ‘Distance?’

  ‘Ah, you’re not going to believe this, but: three feet – it’s barely moved. Theoretically, it’s still in the tunnel.’

  ‘What?’ Harper shook his head. ‘It must have malfunctioned. Can we turn it around?’

  ‘Wait . . . It’s arrived.’

  As if a brake had been applied, the sensation of speed dissolved, and the camera light came on automatically as it detected low light. Harper blinked in confusion, and his mouth dropped open. He got to his feet.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Chapter 23

  Dark Times

  Arn was shown into the main hall by one of the castle’s hundreds of attendants. The servant didn’t enter the hall, but merely opened the door and motioned with his arm towards the darkened interior. Arn stepped through, and paused to allow his eyes to adjust.

  A single candle burned on the far side of the room, and he made his way towards it. The silence was unsettling. Even his cautious footsteps sounded heavy as he crossed from the polished stones onto woven rugs.

  Arn slowed when he saw that someone was seated in a massive chair, their head resting on one of their hands. Another empty chair stood close by. The figure lifted his head, silver eyes shining in the dark.

  ‘Dark times, young Man-kind.’ Grimvaldr sat back and studied Arn carefully. ‘Dark times that require dark deeds.’ He sighed. ‘What would you do to save someone you loved?’

  Arn s
tepped a little closer. ‘Anything . . . Everything.’

  Grimvaldr nodded. ‘Yes, I too.’ He opened his hand and showed Arn the scrap of material bearing the crest of the silver wolf with red eyes. ‘Grimson has been taken by the Panterran.’

  Arn felt a sudden surge of anger, and fear for the youth. The thought of the old sorcerer’s talons digging into Grimson’s flesh made him want to scream with rage. ‘Is he a hostage? Do they want a ransom?’ He stepped closer. ‘Can we get him back?’

  The king nodded slowly. ‘I hope so. There is a ransom, but they want something that is not mine to give.’

  Arn grabbed the king’s forearm. ‘Then you must get it, and do everything in your power to save your son. How can I help?’

  The king stared at the floor, but his eyes were focused on something much further away. At last he looked up, the weight of all his years dragging his features down.

  ‘They want you, Arnoddr-Sigarr.’

  Arn frowned, momentarily confused as he tried to make sense of the words. He stepped back, feeling his legs bump against the empty chair, and he sat down heavily.

  ‘They . . . They want me?’ Arn’s mind jumped back to being tied to the rack, the hooked claws piercing the flesh of his face, and the invasion of his mind. He also remembered the creature wanting to read the future in his entrails. It made his legs weak, and he shuddered and felt cold all over. ‘If they get me, will they . . . release Grimson unharmed?’

  ‘Perhaps they will.’ The king stared hard at him.

  ‘And did they say what they wanted me for?’

  Grimvaldr shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Perhaps to be a pet for their queen.’ He paused. ‘Or it could be something . . . else.’

  Arn felt a lump of fear in the back of his throat. In the short time he had known the Wolfen, he had found them to be the noblest race he had ever met. Eilif, Sorenson, Strom; they wouldn’t hesitate . . . He rose to his feet.

  ‘Then you must do anything you can to get your son back. And I will do everything I can to make sure it happens.’

  The king stood and placed his huge hands on Arn’s shoulders, pulling the other towards him in a crushing embrace.

  He stepped back. ‘Putting yourself in harm’s way for a friend is a noble thing.’

  Arn nodded. He remembered Mr. Jefferson, the bus driver, saying the same thing. The lump in his throat grew bigger as he suddenly longed for his old life back. He nodded again, but still couldn’t speak.

  ‘Our races are very similar, Arn. It’s no wonder the legends talk of our enduring kinship.’ He walked over to a long table on which lay something covered with a soft cloth. He motioned for Arn to join him. ‘You asked me whether the Slinkers would release my son unharmed. I said, perhaps. But truly, I think not. I also think your fate will be far more unpleasant than to be some curio for the queen.’

  Arn thought once again of the claws in his face. ‘I’ll still do it.’

  The king lifted the cloth. Beneath lay two small cages side by side – one slightly longer than the other. He used a knuckle to tap the top of the larger cage, causing its occupant to fall from the side where it had been hanging, close to its mate. The creature looked like a beetle, but was the size of his fist, with its abdomen blazing like a light bulb. In the other cage, its mate was smaller, and emerald green in colour.

  ‘Fleet beetles.’ Grimvaldr pointed to the larger one. ‘The female fluoresces when close to the male. They mate for life, and even if you separated them by a thousand longs, she would still find him. The closer she is, the brighter she glows.’

  Arn leaned over the cages. ‘How does she find him?’

  ‘By smell – the male fleet beetle gives off a unique odour that the female tracks. Only she can smell it, and once paired, the perfume he makes is designed to be just for her.’

  ‘I think I see.’ Arn saw the king’s plan in his head. ‘So, I hide the male beetle on myself, and then you use the female beetle’s homing light to come and find me.’

  ‘Yes . . . But the Panterran will most likely search you.’ The king smiled ruefully. ‘You will need to swallow him. The female will still be able to track him when he’s inside your gut.’

  Arn grimaced, and looked hard at the smaller beetle. Smaller, but still the size of his thumb, and with six spindly, sharp-looking legs. Ugh. ‘When?’

  ‘Not yet. Just before we hand you over. It will take three days for the beetle to pass through your system, which should be time enough.’

  Arn nodded slowly, still feeling queasy at the thought of something that large, alive in his stomach. ‘And then the Wolfen army will find me, and when they do, hopefully I’ll be at the same place where the Slinkers have taken Grimson.’

  The king lifted the smaller cage, and shook it slightly as he peered through the tiny bars. ‘That’s what we hope. But I’m afraid there will be no army. The Panterran scouts would alert them to a large force approaching long before it got anywhere near you. No, it will need to be a small party.’

  This did nothing for Arn’s confidence. ‘So, ahh, fifty Wolfen elite?’

  The king shook his head.

  ‘Twenty? Ten?’

  Grimvaldr just shook his head again.

  ‘So how many?’

  The king held up two fingers.

  ‘Two? Just two? Oh, great . . .’

  ‘Do not fear, Man-kind – I will send Strom and Sorenson. They are an army in themselves, and the best warriors and trackers this land has seen in many generations. They will find you . . . and bring you both to safety.’

  Arn knew the king was right about the size of the force needed – the Panterran could probably hear a blade of grass bending in the darkest forest, so would certainly know if even a small force of Wolfen were making their way towards them. Besides, he thought, the king won’t risk perhaps his only chance to rescue his son.

  ‘Good as it gets, I suppose – when can I expect to go?’

  ‘Tomorrow eve. Say nothing of this to anyone, young Man-kind. Even in the court of the king, there are those – a very few, thank Odin – who prefer the reward of riches to the brotherhood of the pack.’

  ‘Traitors . . . Spies? Is that why we’re meeting in private? Do you have any idea who they are?’

  The king draped the cloth back over the cages. ‘We have suspicions, but nothing we can prove. Just the same, we must be cautious. If the Panterran discovered our plan, they would remove the beetle – with a blade.’

  This didn’t do much for Arn’s confidence either.

  *****

  Vulpernix had travelled alone through the dark forest for many hours. He sought out a secret passage only he knew – a cave that led under the fields and open spaces, emerging in a small valley at the very edge of Valkeryn.

  Even as he approached, he could sense the being waiting just inside the hidden mouth of the cave. His nose twitched at the familiar, unpleasant smell.

  ‘Vulpernix, betrayer of the Canites, friend to the Panterran.’ Orcalion glided from the dark hole and sat with his hood pulled up over his head, his yellow eyes glowing.

  Vulpernix turned away for a moment, to throw off the look of distaste that had spread across his features. He smiled indifferently at the Panterran. ‘Greetings, wise Orcalion – and please, not a betrayer, but a saviour of the Canites. I bring good news: the king has agreed to hand over the Man-kind.’

  Orcalion got to his feet. ‘Good news for the king, I think. What else, brave Wolfen?’

  Vulpernix frowned at the other’s indifference to news he had thought critical to the queen of the Panterran. ‘He has sent word to the far garrisons to bring in the scattered Wolfen tribes – in ten days their numbers will be powerful indeed. I suggest any attack takes place before then. The kingdom will be yours.’

  The old sorcerer’s soft, rasping laugh was like a hiss of steam. ‘Yes, attack early. But I have also heard the scattered Wolfen are being recalled not in ten days . . . More like five. That doesn’t give us much time at all, does it,
trusted friend Vulpernix?’

  Orcalion glided closer. ‘It seems the information you bring is a little . . . stale. I have also learned that the king plans to send his young and old Canites away from the castle.’ The yellow eyes glared with an intensity that seemed to burn into the old Wolfen’s brain. ‘We will need them. It is a long journey back to the dark lands, and the Lygon will need plenty of food . . . live food.’ Again, there was the hiss of laughter.

  Vulpernix recoiled in disgust. ‘You go too far, Orcalion. I’ll gladly sell you information, but I’ll not see the young ones taken captive . . . for food. That was never part of the deal.’

  In the blink of an eye, Orcalion had a curved dagger up under the old Wolfen’s chin. ‘Small, young ones, soon grow to be big ones. We cannot have another army of Wolfen coming down from the far lands after the Lygon have gone home. Best if the Panterran solve all their problems at once – besides, as soon as you took our wealth, you became one of us . . . brother Vulpernix.’ He lowered the dagger and turned his back, stepping once more into the shadows of the small cave. ‘Make sure next time you bring us new information. You told me nothing that I didn’t already know, vile betrayer of your kind.’

  A small leather bag hit the ground at Vulpernix’s feet. When he looked up again, he was alone.

  Chapter 24

  The King’s Mission

  The evening was coming too soon for Arn.

  Late into the afternoon, Eilif wanted to continue practising their sword skills, but he couldn’t find any enthusiasm for it. His stomach was knotted in fear, and no matter how she joked, or cajoled him, he felt like a zombie.

  In the end she gave up and wished him good morrow. Arn reached out to take her hand, shook it, but then held it a little longer than usual.