Return of the Ancients

by Greig Beck

  ‘The halls of Valhalla will be full tonight, and blessed are those who are first to make their way to sit before Odin.’

  As one, the generals strucks their fists against their armour-plated chests.

  ‘Our enemy is not like us. Where we show mercy, they are cruel. Where we hold out our hand, they clutch the assassin’s blade. They have no sáál, and Hellheim waits for their twisted minds and bodies.’

  In response, the generals beat their chests again.

  ‘If a Wolfen king falls, the pack will fight on. If he falls, Valkeryn lives on. For inside every Wolfen, the spirit of Fenrir burns like the Great Fire at the beginning of all things.’

  The fists were now beating continuously.

  ‘But the Panterran – if their Queen falls, they will be like a serpent with no head. Our goal is to capture Mogahr, or take her head. Even if we fail in this, the Panterran will fall back to defend her – and give our far Wolfen warriors time to swell our ranks. The dark is their friend, so they will attack when the moon sets and before the sun rises. If they like the dark, then we will be the light.’ He smiled grimly and looked slowly around the room. ‘We will be Fenrir’s fire with all its blessed light and heat, and we will give them war.’ His voice rose, and he crushed his hand into a fist before them. ‘We will give them a war to end all wars!’

  Grimvaldr bared his long teeth and roared, and the Wolfen responded in kind, their roars a deafening cacophony in the large throne room.

  The king held up his fist. ‘Generals of the Wolfen pack, assemble your warriors. The hour is here.’

  Swords were drawn and shouts for Valkeryn, Grimvaldr, and death to Mogahr echoed around the room as the Wolfen departed to prepare their troops. Grimvaldr watched them go, and waited for the heavy doors to be closed. Then he turned to the remaining figure, standing silently in the room.

  Queen Freya, dressed in her own battle armour, smiled at her husband. He walked towards her and removed one of his heavy gauntlets, so he could reach out to stroke her cheek where it showed beneath her helmet.

  ‘Freya, beautiful Queen Freya. I remember when I chased you through the castle grounds when we were both little more than younglings. You have been my blood and sáál, my fire for an eternity.’

  She reached up to take his hand, and hold it against her chest. ‘If this day we are to travel to Valhalla, then I have no regrets. Mighty king, you have given me everything I could have ever wished for.’

  Grimvaldr reached inside a pouch at his side and drew forth a small box, which he opened to reveal a tiny painted likeness of himself, and one of Freya, Eilif and Grimson. ‘Give this to our son. Send him away with the Man-kind now, before he is trapped here by the horde. I fear if these walls fall, then none will survive.’

  Freya took the small pictures, looked at them for a moment, her lips turning up in a small smile. She pressed the box to her lips, as a single tear rolled down the fur on her face. ‘I pray, one day he returns to take Mogahr’s head . . . To take all their heads.’

  Freya grabbed Grimvaldr and clung to him, rubbing her cheek against his. He held her close for a moment, before pushing her gently away.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll see you on the field, my lord. The enemy will pay a heavy price this day.’

  *****

  Bergborr was the last of the Wolfen to leave the throne room. The dark warrior felt nauseous. Fear, perhaps . . . or was it guilt? He couldn’t tell anymore, as things were so jumbled in his head.

  He wanted to fight, and fight for Valkeryn – home to his ancestors for countless generations. But as he walked down the corridor, looking at the pictures of the kings past, he knew that his likeness would never grace the walls while Grimvaldr lived. Or for that matter, while Eilif thought she had a choice of suitor.

  He grimaced at the thought of the attention she had been giving to the Man-kind. His hairlessness and short face were repulsive. It was unnatural and it was sick.

  He was walking heavily down the corridor, cursing beneath his breath, when Eilif suddenly appeared in his path, making him start. She threw back her head and laughed at him, and the sound made his heart melt within his armoured chest. He had loved her since he had first seen her in the king’s court, and now that she was at the cusp of being an adult female Wolfen, he wanted her even more as his life mate.

  He devoured her with his eyes – her tall form, strong and lithe in her battle armour. Her eyes, that were large and shining pools of both flashing silver ice, reflected his own image back at him.

  She raised her chin. ‘You look like you have seen a wraith, brave Bergborr. One so large should not be so afeared, especially on the eve of a great battle.’ She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.

  He laughed in return and took her hand. ‘I would fear a single harsh word from you, over a thousand Lygon death warriors, my beautiful Eilif.’

  Her smile evaporated, and she pulled her hand away. ‘I’m no Wolfen’s Eilif.’

  ‘Of course, I just meant—’

  ‘I’m to see the king now.’ She nodded. ‘Until the battle, then.’

  He stepped towards her. ‘Are you . . . Are you fighting close to the king? I shall look for you.’

  She turned away. ‘No need; I already have someone to fight by my side this day. Look to your own Wolfen brothers, Bergborr. And may Odin protect you.’

  ‘May Odin protect us all,’ he replied automatically. He bowed as she danced lightly away down the corridor.

  Already have someone to fight by my side. The words burned him deeply. Any stirring of guilt he had felt earlier was swept away with the loathing he felt for the Arnodrr-Sigarr – from the moment he arrived, everything changed. And in turn, Bergborr had been forced to change his plans to suit the circumstances.

  The queen of the Panterran had ordered that none were to harm the Man-kind. She now wanted him even more than she wanted Grimvaldr to fall. Bergborr shivered in anticipation. He couldn’t imagine what the vile queen would do to the Arnoddr when she finally had him in her taloned grip, but it soothed his bitter heart to know it would undoubtedly be bloody.

  *****

  Eilif entered the throne room and was surprised to find her mother there. She walked quickly to the queen, took her hand, bowed, and then turned to her father.

  ‘You called for me?’ She looked up into his face, noting that the strong features looked slightly drawn, as though a great pain was burning inside his breast.

  ‘Yes, Eilif. This one last time I call.’ He took her hand and led her to a large throne-like chair, sitting her down and staring at her, as though collecting his thoughts. Freya came to stand beside him, and placed one hand on his shoulder.

  Eilif looked up into his eyes; his solemnity was making her nervous.

  At last, the king drew in a deep breath and spoke.

  ‘Grimson will be safe.’

  Eilif nodded and waited. She already assumed that Grim would be kept away from the battle. But this couldn’t be why they had called her on the eve of war.

  ‘He’ll be taken to the far lands, then?’ she asked.

  The king smiled sadly. ‘You are very perceptive. Yes, he will go to the far lands . . . and well beyond them. In fact, he is leaving now. I apologise for not allowing you your farewells. But time is not something we have to spend freely. In fact, time is something that is controlled more by our approaching enemies.’

  She nodded and smiled at the queen. Freya smiled sadly in return.

  What of it, Eilif wondered? The battle would be decided quickly, and when the mighty Wolfen were victorious, Grimson would be sent for, and then he and his escort . . .

  The thought ended abruptly, as if it had fallen off a steep dark precipice in her mind. She turned to the king.

  ‘Who accompanies our prince on his journey?’

  Grimvaldr didn’t respond.

  Eilif rose slowly from the chair. Her knees shook, but she stared unwaveringly into the king’s eyes.

  Grimvaldr reached out for her as he
murmured, ‘The Arnoddr-Sigarr.’

  Her breath momentarily locked in her chest, and then exploded in a howl that pierced the long throne room. She batted his hand away. ‘No! He was to fight by my side. He is . . .’ She balled her fists. ‘There were a hundred others you could have chosen – why him?’

  ‘There were others, but Grimson trusts him – and I trust him. He has already proven his willingness to risk all for us. Who better to protect our future, than one brave sáál from the past?’

  Eilif howled again and fell to her knees. She let her head fall and closed her eyes. ‘Was there no one else to go with him?’

  Grimvaldr knelt down next to her. ‘As you said, Eilif, I could have sent hundreds, thousands. But I believe that stealth will succeed, where force would not.’ He paused, and then lifted her chin. ‘You know, there is a strength in that one, the likes of which we have not seen for an eternity. He is the right choice.’

  Eilif got slowly to her feet. He was right. Grimvaldr was always right.

  The king tried to embrace her, but she pulled away and ran towards the doors.

  ‘He’s already gone, Eilif. He will return when the time is right, and the land is safe once again.’

  ‘And who will keep him safe?’ Eilif cried, pushing through the doors, leaving the king and queen standing in silence.

  Perhaps he had left something for her, something telling her where they had gone? She tore through the stone corridors, her armour clanging like cymbals as she barged through doorways, bounced off walls, not slowing until she came to his room, and shouldered open the door.

  ‘Arn, my Arn!’

  The room was empty. She rushed about, searching, rifling through drawers – there was nothing. She balled her fists and squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to give her suffering a voice.

  Every parting is a form of death, he had said. Now the words made sense – that was his message to her. Eilif sank down onto the bed, burying her face in the sheets and drawing in his scent. Through the window, the moonlight washed over her.

  She lifted her head and screamed her agony.

  Chapter 45

  There Will Be No Saviours

  The first wave of the far Wolfen burst through the trees into a large clearing. They skidded to a halt, their eyes wideneing first in disbelief, and then in triumph.

  Several Wolfen elite stood waiting for them, their hands tight on their sword hilts, with bodies nobly erect, and their demeanour calm. The banners of Grimvaldr fluttered in a breeze beside them.

  A roar went up from the travelling warriors, who were now piling up in the expansive clearing, dozens deep, each craning over the other, to see the armoured warriors they would soon be joining.

  ‘Grimvaldr comes to meet us. Long live the king!’ A roar went up and they rushed forward. It was only when they were within a dozen paces of the motionless warriors did they see them for what they were – caricatures of living beings. Their mouths were sewn shut, and blood leaked from under armour where they had been pierced a hundred times. In addition, the elite warriors had been lashed upright, with even their necks bound to hidden stakes, giving them a proud posture.

  The far Wolfen, confused, slowed, but only for a second as a screech tore through the air, followed by the hiss of hundreds upon hundreds of arrows in flight.

  By the time a warning was roared, hundreds of bodies lay twitching on the grass. The same scene was repeated along a dozen slopes.

  There would be no far Wolfen joining the battle this day.

  Chapter 46

  To the Dark Lands

  ‘I could have fought. I’m big enough.’ Grimson trailed behind Arn as they threaded their way along the winding path. He pulled his sword free and slashed at a hanging vine.

  Arn spoke over his shoulder. ‘Stay quiet. There are Panterran about. And I know – I’ve seen you practise – you’re very good. But I am on a quest, and I needed the help of a stout heart. The king said you were the best man – ahh, Wolfen – for the job.’

  ‘A quest? Yes, I’m the best one for that!’ Grimson sheathed his sword and ran to catch up with Arn. ‘What is the quest?’

  ‘It’ll be long and arduous . . . and very dangerous.’ Arn looked down at Grimson. ‘I guess you could say, we’re looking for me.’

  Grimson frowned in confusion.

  Arn patted him on the shoulder. ‘We’re looking for traces of my people. I don’t believe that they all flew away one day . . . or that our spirits did. Some would have stayed; some would have hidden from whatever happened. I need to know what that was. I just need to prove I didn’t cause . . .’ Arn swallowed hard, but that voice in his head wouldn’t be silenced. You just need to prove it wasn’t you who caused the extinction of humanity, that’s all . . .

  Grimson nodded. ‘I wish Eilif could have come.’

  The name felt like a dagger wound. ‘Me too, Grim.’

  ‘My name’s Grimson. Only Eilif is allowed to call me Grim.’ The young Wolfen thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘But you can call me Grim, too, I guess.’ He nodded, satisfied with his decision.

  Arn didn’t hear him. He stared distractedly into the distance, where Eilif stood, sword raised, facing down a horde of Lygon that pounded across the ground towards her.

  ‘Arnoddr, did you hear me?’

  Arn shrugged, not wanting to talk anymore. He felt tired and depressed.

  ‘This quest – where will it take us? Arnoddr, this quest – where will it take us?’ This time, Grimson tugged at his arm.

  Arn glanced down at him and blinked, seeming almost surprised to find that he wasn’t alone. He reached instinctively for Vidarr’s map, folded in a pocket sewn into his vest. ‘The dark lands, and you will need to help. You will need to tell me if there is anything you recognise as being dangerous. I might not see it. This is your world now, Grim.’

  The young Wolfen sighed, and then nodded. ‘I can do that.’ He thought some more. ‘The dark lands – I wish we had more Wolfen with us. I wish we had Strom with us.’

  *****

  Strom’s head bobbed above the slavering crowd, his staring eyes towards the distant castle. Goranx stood at the front of the horde and shook his grisly trophy. Both Panterran and Lygon cheered.

  Mogahr raised an arm to silence them. She looked at the pike with the Wolfen champion’s head impaled upon it, and her lips parted in a grotesque smile.

  ‘By the time of theee next sssun’ss risssing, I want a thousssand, thousssand more Wolfen headsss upon my ssspikesss.’ She held out her hand and a Panterran thrust something into it. This, she held up to the horde.

  It was a long metal sword, with a jewel-encrusted pommel and leather-wrapped handle. ‘Creeeated by the Panterran blacksssmiths, and harder than the ssstrongessst Wolfen sssteeel. Made from a block of the ancient’s hardest iron’

  She turned the sword over and sliced the air with it. ‘The weaponnn of a true championnn.’ She sat forward, her near hairless body cloaked by the darkest hour of the night.

  ‘The championnn who brings me Grimvaldr’sss head, will have thisss weapon as proof of hisss mighty deeeed.’

  The crowd roared, and the sound washed across the hilltop as news of the reward passed along the ranks.

  Mogahr lowered the sword and looked to Orcalion.

  ‘Begin the attttack.’

  Chapter 47

  They Do Not Know Who it Is They Fight

  Grimvaldr stood in his stirrups and looked along the line of warriors. His elite were organised into two hundred phalanxes, five deep and ten long. Rows of archers stood in position behind them, and then two columns of another twenty thousand Wolfen.

  The castle once had rolling green plain spread out before it, gentle hills rising into forest along its sides. Now, the plain was churned, the forest burning; the king surveyed the horizon, knowing that after several days of preparation, they were out of time. There would only be one chance.

  Grimvaldr turned to two of his generals, Lon and Karnak. ‘The
east and west columns must not break. You must keep the Panterran attack funnelled down the centre of the plain. If too many of the gravilents get in among our troops, their armoured hide will take too long to penetrate, and we do not have the time or troops to spend on bringing them down.’

  Karnak nodded. ‘Mighty stones have been piled high, and on top of that will be Wolfen spears – they will not break on our eastern side, sire.’ He looked at Lon. ‘And if the general needs help, I’ll make sure they don’t break on his side as well.’

  Lon laughed and struck Karnak’s armour with his fist. ‘You’ll be singing in Valhalla long before they break my line, oldling.’

  The generals both turned to Grimvaldr. ‘Ready, sire. On your word.’

  ‘Take your positions.’

  Karnak and Lon turned to each other and gripped gauntleted hands at shoulder height as they stared into each other’s face. Lon spoke quietly. ‘May Odin allow us to spill rivers of Panterran blood before he calls us.’

  Karnak grinned. ‘Odin’s strength, brother.’

  Both pulled on their reins and wheeled their horses, racing them to either side of the plain.

  Grimvaldr watched them go as Sorenson rode up beside him. ‘The scouts report that no sign of the far Wolfen have been sighted.’

  Grimvaldr looked to the sky. ‘They will come . . . If they are able, they will come.’

  The Panterran’s drumming stopped, and horns blared eerily across the plain.

  ‘They come.’ Grimvaldr turned his horse back to the front of the ranks with Sorenson beside him. He rode along the lines of Wolfen, holding up his fist. In turn, the Wolfen thumped gauntleted fists against their chests as he passed.

  ‘This day, we face a threat from vile creatures of the dark. They will give no quarter – neither must you. The Panterran would seek to bring this kingdom down, and crush the Wolfen into dust.’ The king roared, ‘But they do not know who it is they fight!’