Return of the Ancients

by Greig Beck

  She smiled at first, and then frowned. ‘What is it?’

  He released her hand. ‘It’s nothing. It’s just that you’ve been a good friend to me.’ He turned away, not seeing her face fall at the use of the word friend again.

  ‘I can tell something is wrong, Arnoddr. You don’t look me in the eye when you wish to conceal something. Did you know there is a Wolfen saying that goes: the eyes allow one’s sáál to reveal its true self.’

  ‘Huh, a what?’

  She took his hand and placed it in the centre of her chest. ‘It’s something in here. Not the heart or the breathers, but something that cannot be seen that is the core of every righteous being. You have one too . . . and I think it’s a good one.’

  Arn laughed and nodded. ‘Yes, I do. We call it, the soul. We have a similar saying – the eyes are the windows to the soul. So I guess you’re right; our races are more alike than we think.’

  She placed her hand on the centre of his chest. ‘Yes, I believe I can feel it inside you – your soul. And do you know what else I believe? Inside, you’re really a Wolfen.’ She smiled and grabbed his vest and pulled him closer. ‘So, Man-kind . . . or maybe, Man-Wolfen, now that I look through the windows to your soul-sáál, what is troubling you? No untruths.’

  Arn knew he couldn’t tell her. She still didn’t even know that Grimson had been taken; she had been told that he was in some sort of training school for young warriors.

  ‘Tomorrow. Okay?’

  ‘You’ll tell me tomorrow?’

  He looked at her solemnly. ‘Tomorrow, you’ll know . . . Promise.’

  *****

  Eilif watched him walk away, kicking small stones out of his path. He was the strangest being she had ever known – and easily the most interesting, and . . . what? She didn’t know what he meant to her really. He confused her more than any other male.

  She laughed at what she had called him – Man-Wolfen. Though there was no such thing, she really did believe he had the face of a man, but the heart and sáál of one of her own kind. She felt safe with him, felt . . . nice, when he was near.

  She drew her sword, and practised swinging and lunging at shadows as the sun began to go down. There was a soft footfall behind her, and she spun around, a smile on her face and her sword raised, expecting Arn to have returned.

  ‘I knew you’d . . .’ She lowered her sword, just managing to drop the vestige of the smile on her face. ‘You should not sneak up on someone brandishing a sword, young warrior. Even the best Wolfen may find themselves missing an arm.’

  Bergborr bowed deeply, with one arm crossed in front of his waist and one behind. When he straightened, he brought his arm out from behind his back, revealing a handful of wildflowers.

  Eilif looked at them and tilted her head. ‘So I bring a sword, and you bring flowers. Things seem to be the wrong way around, wouldn’t you say, friend Bergborr?’

  The dark Wolfen laughed and pushed the flowers into her hand. ‘Forgive me, I’m a fool in the presence of such beauty.’

  Eilif’s ears blushed pink; she relished the compliment, even though she knew it was flattery. She also knew of his ambitions, and although he would be considered a fine warrior mate, she had never been sure if it was she, or her father’s throne, that most attracted him.

  Like magic, from his other hand he presented her with a dagger in a scabbard of the most finely detailed silver, encrusted with fiery green stones. She reached for it, her fingers closing around the hilt . . .

  She let her hand fall, empty. ‘I am far too young to be receiving gifts from such a fine warrior as yourself. Perhaps there are more deserving ladies of the court, on whom you might lavish your attentions.’

  ‘Would you at least walk with me tonight after I have attended to my duties in the king’s court? Pay me that honour, at least.’

  Eilif frowned slightly. Arn had an audience with the king that eve – Bergborr also? Strange things were happening.

  She smiled innocently. ‘We’ll see. It has been a long day and I’m tired. Perhaps you can call on me in the morning?’

  He drew in a deep breath of frustration, and bowed again. ‘I will not give up, young princess. Tomorrow morning it is.’

  Eilif watched him leave, and then opened her hand to let the flowers fall to the ground.

  *****

  Arn stood alone in the small chamber. On the table beside him stood a cup of water, a pot of honey, and a small box. The king had told him that now was the time to swallow the male fleet beetle, and with a shaking hand he opened the box. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, and then reopened one of them; it was probably just his imagination, but the bug looked even bigger than when he had seen it in its cage.

  He put his ear to the door – he could hear raised voices outside. He’d be called soon, and nowhere else to hide the beetle if he changed his mind. He thought again of Grimson and snatched up the box again, upending it. The glossy beetle fell into his hand and lay there, unmoving. He looked hard at the creature, half wishing it was dead. Instead, he could see that all of its legs had been tied with a sort of fine, waxy string. The king had told him that his stomach acids would not harm the shell of the fleet beetle, but he guessed the string would eventfully be dissolved. He studied the small claws on the tips of its bound, spindly legs. It gave a whole new meaning to the expression, butterflies in the stomach.

  He groaned, remembering his instructions. Here goes nothing, he thought. Dipping the bug into the honey, he squeezed his eyes shut, then placed it at the back of his tongue. He grabbed up the mug of water and began gulping furiously. He started gagging and gulped the water harder, painfully swallowing both the bug and, with it, some bile that was rushing up to try to escape.

  Yecch! He doubled over, coughing, and his eyes watered. There was an acidic, almond taste in his mouth. He leaned over the table, breathing hard.

  ‘I will never complain about brussel sprouts again, I promise.’ He dipped his fingers into the honey, licking more of the sweet sticky nectar to mask the aftertaste of the bug.

  There was a thump on the door. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  *****

  Eilif slowly leaned out, far over the stone balcony, and peered down into the closed courtyard. It appeared to be a small party of hooded Panterran, flanked by a larger group of Wolfen. Some of the guards were snarling, but the Slinkers sat as still as stones, ignoring them.

  They weren’t prisoners – had they come to the castle under a flag of truce? Something secret was happening, something her father hadn’t told her. But why? she wondered? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

  The doorway outside which they waited led to the main hall – where Arn was supposed to be meeting with the king that very eve . . .

  *****

  Arn entered the throne room. It was already half filled with the Wolfen generals, trusted warriors and counsellors. The king sat on his throne, and flanking him were Sorenson and Strom. Sorenson looked Arn in the eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Strom just continued to look along the lines of assembled warriors and advisors.

  Arn heard the heavy doors close behind him as he walked slowly to the centre of the room. He tried hard not to let his chin quiver, or his knees buckle as he neared the Wolfen.

  The Wolfen warriors dipped their heads as Arn passed them, and the king rose from his throne. He held a huge broadsword by its hilt, its blade sheathed in a heavily patterned scabbard, its tip touching the stones at his feet. He lifted it, then brought it down onto the ground three times. The room immediately fell silent.

  He looked across the assembled warriors, and then to Arn. ‘An honour has been bestowed upon you, young Man-kind – to sacrifice your liberty for that of the young child of the crown, Grimson, first-born prince of Valkeryn. Will you accept this honour?’

  Arn could feel the wall of silence pressing in around him, as every eye was trained on his face, his eyes, his lips, waiting for them to form the words:


  ‘I will.’

  The king’s shoulders slumped with relief. ‘The kingdom thanks you. Know that whatever occurs, we owe you a debt.’ He gave a small bow, and drew in a deep breath. His face grew stern. ‘Bring in the Panterran emissary.’

  The crowd of Wolfen warriors fanned out, looking back towards the doorway as the heavy wooden doors were pushed open. The small familiar figure of Orcalion glided in, grinning.

  He bowed deeply to the king, then looked across at Arn. The excitement was plain on his flat features. ‘You are to be our guest again, Man-kind. But fear not, we wish to be friends with you, and any previous misunderstandings will be quickly forgotten.’ He glanced at Arn’s hands. ‘Bind him . . . for his own safety.’

  Arn’s wrists were tied together with a strip of leather, a further length of which trailed at least six feet from the knots – a lead. Orcalion picked it up, and pulled Arn a few stumbling steps closer.

  ‘Please let me know if the binding is too tight; I do not wish you . . . discomfort.’ He let out a small wheezing laugh, and tugged again on the tether, obviously relishing the moment.

  ‘Two days.’ The king watched the small creature with barely controlled fury on his face. His eyes went to Arn, and then back to Orcalion, who shrugged.

  ‘Yes, two or three days. When we are back safely at our encampment, we will release the young princeling. No . . . accidents must befall us – you must guarantee our safe passage.’

  The king nodded, once. His head remained bowed.

  Oraclion began to drag Arn from the room, and Sorenson moved quickly to stand at the hall’s huge double doors. As Arn passed and he looked him in the eye, there was just the hint of a wink, a small smile on his lips. Arn tried to smile in return, but his face was frozen, as he felt more like a condemned man heading to the gallows.

  Once outside, a small band of Wolfen escorted them down the stone steps and across the lower entrance hall. Orcalion spoke to Arn over his shoulder, ‘Have you anything concealed that I should know about, Man-kind?’

  Arn felt a jolt of fear run through him. The king had said that there were spies in the castle; if they had learned of the fleet beetle inside him, then the rescue plan would fail even before it started. The Panterran stopped and looked briefly over his shoulder.

  Arn shook his head.

  Orcalion yanked the leash again. ‘It matters not; we will search you, once we have reached the forest. But for now . . . lean forward.’ Orcalion reached inside his cloak as Arn stooped slightly. The Panterran pulled a bag over Arn’s head. ‘Some say you have the strength of ten Panterran, and can see even better in the dark. Best to ensure you have as few advantages as possible, then. Be warned: there’ll be a sword at the back of your neck the entire journey.’

  Arn could soon feel the cool night air on his skin. After another few hundred paces, he guessed they were at the castle walls. A few of the Wolfen escorting them called out words of encouragement, and then there came a slamming of heavy wood, and he knew he was alone, with the Panterran, in the dark.

  *****

  From her vantage point on the stone balcony, Eilif watched as the small party led its captive towards the outer walls. The prisoner was taller than his Panterran captor, but shorter than the Wolfen escort, who kept their distance. As they neared the walls, the moon broke through the clouds, and by its light she could just make out the prisoner’s pale, tied hands – they were hairless.

  The breath caught in her throat, and she had to jam a knuckle into her mouth to stifle her scream of outrage. First Grimson disappearing, and now Arn being secretly spirited away . . . Her teeth came together with a snap.

  She’d need to move quickly. Darting back into her room, she set to work fastening her night armour. She knew the Panterran; if they had Arn, it wasn’t because they just wanted to talk to him.

  Anger flared in her chest, and again she bared her teeth in the dark.

  Chapter 25

  It’s Another World

  ‘Is that a tunnel? I mean, our tunnel?’

  Albert Harper felt his heart thumping in his chest as he strained to take in the detail that was just visible from the probe’s camera feed. Data ran up the side of the screen – atmosphere: 78.09% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, 0.93% argon, 0.039% carbon dioxide, .0003 methane . . . A little high on the methane, he thought. Ambient temperature: 73 degrees, water vapour content, air pressure, and on it ran. All fairly normal.

  Jim Takada leaned closer to the large screen. ‘It’s in ruins . . . and not just burned or blown apart. That’s antiquated ruination. So if it is ours, then when the hell is this happening?’

  ‘Good question. Swivel 360 degrees; I want to see what’s around us, and also what we just came through. Is the sound on?’

  The technician keyed in some commands, and then carefully thumbed one of the twin joysticks. ‘Sound on, swivelling.’ The image slowly panned to the right.

  A soft mewling came from somewhere in the dark.

  Takada flinched. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Forget about it. We’re recording, so we can play it all back and analyse it later. For now, we need to get our bearings and see if we can find the kid.’

  The camera continued to pan around until it was facing back towards their entry point.

  ‘There’s nothing there.’ Takada bit his knuckle in agitation.

  He was right – there was no magic dark hole, or glowing doorway – just a damp, debris-filled tunnel.

  Harper shook his head. ‘Gotta be, otherwise the signal would have no path back to us. We’ll find it. Focus – micro-matrix – analyse section by section.’

  A mesh-like grid appeared across the screen, and each square was enlarged and briefly scanned in turn. Harper banged his fist into his hand.

  ‘Bingo.’

  In the centre of the final quadrant, there was a slight swimming of the dark atmosphere, like steam rising over a hot bath.

  ‘That’s it. Lock it in.’

  The location of the anomaly was recorded into the device’s memory. Harper spoke out of the corner of his mouth, not wanting to turn his eyes away from the screen for a second.

  ‘At least now we know we can find our way home. Drop a marker, just in case we need to find a way back in a hurry. Then take it back around and prepare to move forward.’

  The floating electronic eye whined softly as its turned in the air.

  ‘Give me maximum illumination’. Circling the camera lens, an extra ring of lights shone deeper into the tunnel.

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  Something the size of a large, pale, greasy-looking dog scuttled away into the darkness.

  Takada grabbed Harper’s arm. ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Harper stared straight ahead. ‘Yes, I see it. Look.’ He tapped the bottom of the screen with his pencil.

  For a moment, everyone was silent.

  ‘The ground.’ He continued to point.

  At last, Takada murmured, ‘I see it.’

  There were footprints leading down the centre of the tunnel. Harper nodded. ‘Size ten sneaker, wouldn’t you say? Follow them, ASAP.’

  Chapter 26

  Find Me This Traitor

  Grimvaldr paced in the castle courtyard while several Wolfen followed him with their eyes.

  ‘Sire,’ Andrejk said at last. ‘We still need five days to bring in the entire outer ranks of Wolfen.’

  Grimvaldr walked slowly towards his general. ‘I fear that events are not going to be ours to dictate anymore. We now know that the Panterran are aware we are calling for reinforcements – if they are going to make war, they will either head off our far Wolfen before they arrive, or they will seek to attack us long before we are ready.’

  Grimvaldr turned to another of his generals. ‘Magnus, what say the scouts – where are the enemy encampments now?’

  Magnus, a tall battle-scarred Wolfen, rested his hands on the hilt of his broadsword. ‘They are two to three days out . . . but many of our scouts f
ailed to return – captured, most likely, and therefore we have to assume we have blind spots. The Panterran and Lygon could be even closer.’

  Grimvaldr grunted. ‘They will attack us in two days. What will we have available?’ He turned to Karnak, his most experienced soldier. The Wolfen warrior was of the same age as Grimvaldr, and like him had seen war many times before. He smiled grimly as he stepped forward.

  ‘Ten thousand Wolfen elite, two hundred bowmen, five hundred fast riders . . . more than enough to roll over a million Slinkers, and just as many of their giants, sire. The Lygon caught our warriors by surprise in the fields. But it will never happen again. We’ll equip the front lines with lances – the great blunderers’ own body weight will carry them onto our pikes.’

  Grimvaldr placed his hand on Karnak’s shoulder. ‘If only everything went to plan – we could win all our battles at the table.’

  ‘Yes, sire. The mists of war sometimes blur all.’

  Grimvaldr turned to the other Wolfen and spoke in a loud and strong voice. ‘Valkeryn will not fall this season. Though I believe we have enough force to stop the enemy in their tracks, it is imperative that we hold them back for two, perhaps even three days, until our reinforcements begin to arrive. Then we will close around them like a fist.’

  He turned back to Magnus. ‘The far troops need to be fully equipped and briefed – we can’t have thousands of Wolfen streaming into Valkeryn, unprepared. Ready some Wolfen to meet and organise them, so they are armed and ready for battle. Every Wolfen . . . and every second, will count. Go.’

  The generals filed out, leaving only one remaining.

  Grimvaldr sat heavily on a bench and rested an elbow on his thigh and his chin on his fist. He sighed long and wearily. ‘Do you think we can hold them? Could they possibly overwhelm us?’

  Vulpernix sat down beside the king. ‘The Panterran have brought together every warrior in the land. All have been attracted by the thought of conquering Valkeryn.’ He looked off into the distance, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘The Lygon will come in their first attack – though Karnak may think we can spear the giants on our pikes, I fear that they will be ready with heavy armour. Their enormous strength will allow them to carry steel thicker than our weapons could ever hope to penetrate.’