by Greig Beck
She walked forward slowly with her hand on the hilt of the sword. The armour moved perfectly with her, the chain mail fitting snugly to her body. She looked athletic, and fearsome, and… beautiful.
Eilif looked him up and down. ‘Why aren’t you ready?’
Arn threw the cloak over his bag, and sat down on the bed.
Eilif frowned and moved a few paces closer. ‘Do… Do you need help getting into your armour? I can do that for you.’
Arn shook his head. ‘I’m okay. I can do it. Just had a few things to prepare, and I guess I got distracted. Still a lot on my mind right now.’
‘Is it the homesickness spell that ails you again?’
He smiled at her. ‘Sure, a bit.’
‘Father said you cannot fight by his side, as he needs his generals close. I’m sorry.’ She looked away for a moment, then turned back quickly. ‘But when the battle starts, I’ll look for you. I want you by my side. Fighting together, it will be glorious — no one shall best us.’
He took her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But I want to look out for you.’
Arn was filled with such a sadness then, it threatened to well up inside him and pour forth in a wave of tears and confession. This amazing creature — this amazing race of beings — all could be gone in another day.
An old quote from his literature class floated into his mind, and before he knew what he was doing he spoke it aloud:
‘Every parting is a form of death…’ He paused as his voice threatened to crack. She seemed spellbound by the words, and he managed to finish. ‘… As every reunion is a type of heaven.’
She placed her hand over his. ‘That’s beautiful. What is a heaven?’
He smiled again, and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘It’s our Valhalla. A place of peace where all good spirits go.’
She nodded. ‘I would go to heaven, because I am a good warrior. So will you.’ She drew her sword and raised it.
‘Death to the Panterran! Death to the Lygon! And long live Grimvaldr and all the mighty Wolfen!’ Her eyes glowed with excitement. Then she sheathed the sword and headed for the door.
‘I’ll find you on the field.’ She paused as if waiting for something, and Arn rose from the bed, meaning to shake her hand, or hug her, or something.
As he drew close, he saw her lips just curve into a shy smile, and the inside of her ears darken to a shade of pink. She grabbed hold of him, and pulled him to her. He felt her face against his cheek as she hugged him hard. She pulled back, and made a fist over her chest as though grabbing something.
‘My heart…’ She moved her closed fist from her chest to his, and opened the fingers. ‘… Is now your heart.’
She quickly pressed her lips to his for a second, and then spun away without another word.
Arn watched her go.
Chapter 41
Not All Can Be Honourable
The figure moved silently along the cobbled street. It wore no armour or clothing of any type, and if it had stepped out of the shadows, the moonlight would have shone on a coat of dark fur.
As it made its way to the edge of the stone channel that carried the stream through the castle, another, older figure emerged from the gloom.
‘A Wolfen without clothes — either you go to meet your love, or you do not wish to have your family crest seen by others. Which is it, young Wolfen?’ The older figure stepped closer. ‘Ah, Bergborr of the house of Bergrinne.’
Bergborr straightened, but kept one hand behind his back. ‘Vulpernix.’ He bowed. ‘Lurking in the shadows could get one into trouble.’
‘Only with those who look for trouble. You haven’t answered my question.’
Bergborr nodded. ‘I go to meet Eilif.’
Vulpernix laughed softly. ‘She would rather marry a Lygon than be in your embrace.’ The old Wolfen lowered one of his hands to the hilt of his sword. ‘If I was a traitor, I might be tempted to give an enemy a way into the castle. Perhaps… by unlocking the river gates?’
Bergborr bared his teeth and growled. ‘You dare accuse me? It is your own plan of which you speak. Besides, Panterran will never go near water.’
Vulpernix nodded. ‘That is very true. But unfortunately for the kingdom, we are not just at war with the Panterran. Everyone knows the Lygon have no such fear of water. You are cunning, Bergborr — but do not take me for a fool.’
Vulpernix drew his sword, pointing at the chest of the younger Wolfen. ‘I have been watching you for days. You slip out to meet with the Panterran. I know the secret meeting places, for I have used them too. I know those creatures better than you, young fool. I feed them useless information, and watch for it to be used to the detriment of their accursed Panterran queen. You also deliver them Wolfen knowledge, but it is solely for your own betterment, and to the detriment of our great race.’
Bergborr lifted his chin. ‘Not all Panterran are as you believe, there are…’
Vulpernix suddenly leaned forward. ‘Fool! What is it you think you will accomplish? They don’t make deals with Wolfen — they use them, and then crush them, as they surely will do to you… and the Princess Eilif.’
Bergborr fell to his knees and reached out his hand, beseeching the older Wolfen noble, ‘You are right, and I am a fool, and perhaps made more so by love. Do you know what it is like to love another, who barely knows you exist? What it is like to be the perfect suitor, but then be scrubbed from your love’s consciousness by a creature that shouldn’t even exist? If I am a fool for love, then I am one rendered deaf, dumb and blind to everything and anything but that love.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it is a sickness.’
Bergborr beat his chest with one hand, punishing himself, over and over, his face a mask of humiliation and sorrow. Vulpernix kept his sword up, the point only a few hand spans from the young Wolfen’s torso.
‘Love makes fools of some, and heroes of others. Get up.’ Vulpernix watched as the young Wolfen’s hand beat his chest again harder, and he made a sound of disgust deep in his throat, at the dark Wolfen’s lack of dignity. He was about to order Bergborr to his feet again when on the next motion, instead of the hand striking his body, it shot out and grabbed the tip of the sword. The razor sharp edge would have bitten deeply, but the weapon was locked, only momentarily, in a steel grip.
It was enough.
Bergborr gritted his teeth from the pain, and stared into the old Woflen’s eyes as he spoke. ‘But if there is a chance for that love, then would I not be a greater fool not risking all for it?’ He lunged forward, swinging his other arm up from behind his back, the full length of the metal key protruding between his knuckles. The blow struck Vulpernix in the neck, piercing deeply, and crushing his windpipe so that no sound other than a strangled hiss fell from his gaping mouth.
Bergborr whispered into Vulpernix’s ear, ‘What do I hope to accomplish, old fool? I do not just hope; I will accomplish Grimvaldr’s downfall, and in his place will rise King Bergborr, with Queen Eilif at my side. The king believes the Panterran can never be made into our allies — but he’s wrong. I’ve already done it.’
Vulpernix looked up to the sky, to the tiny pinpoints of light, which he knew to be the candlelight from Valhalla’s golden hallways. He’d be there soon.
A final thought drifted across his mind as his single clear eye began to cloud over. Sorry, my king. I have failed you. May Odin give you luck and strength on the morrow.
Vulpernix sped to Valhalla.
* * *
Bergborr slipped over the side of the bank, dragging the old Wolfen’s body with him. He paddled silently to where the river flowed into the arched, gated tunnel. Sucking in a few deep breaths, he ducked below the surface, dragging the body with him.
The slight murmur of the river masked the sound of heavy, ancient iron gates being unlocked and forced open.
Later, Bergborr would tie a length of dark cloth to a flagpole on the highest turret of the castle — that would be the signal. His job would the
n be done.
Chapter 42
One World, One Race to Rule
Orcalion bowed deeply and crawled forward on his knees. He knew that the queen was still furious for his role in allowing the Man-kind to escape.
He looked up into the golden, slitted eyes. ‘We are ready, almighty Mogahr.’
The eyes didn’t blink. ‘And whaat offf the Wolfen traaaitor? Did heee open the hiddeen gate into the cassstle?’
‘The sign is there. The colours of Grimvaldr have also been taken, as well the Wolfen scouts we captured. They will be put to good use.’
‘And the Lygonsss — can we trussst thossse ssstuumbling bruutesss tooo hold tooogether long enough for the attackkk?’
‘The Lygon want flesh — but as long as we do not bring them up too soon, we may be able to hold them until the charge is sounded. Once they charge, anything in front of them will be destroyed.’
‘And wheeen theeere is no mooore Wolfen flesssh to consssume? Yesss, theen weee will deal with them alssso. One world — one race to rule it, Orcalion.’
Orcalion nodded. ‘As you wish, my queen.’ He tilted his head. ‘I wonder: how exactly does our pet Wolfen imagine he will live to claim his prize?’
Mogahr’s mouth opened, revealing the decayed remnants of her long fangs. ‘We promisssed him that he and the princessss would not be killed. We promisssed him that heee would rule over the remaining Wolfen. The Lygonss will need rationss for the long marccch back to their homeland. Perhapsss our traitor can be king of the prisonersss taken for fooood.’
Orcalion hissed out a laugh and bowed deeply. ‘But they shan’t meet their deaths at our hands. We Panterran always keep our word.’ He laughed again.
Mogahr raised her head and sniffed the air. ‘It will sssoon be the darkessst hour of the night — we attack then.’ Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. ‘If you fail me, Orcalion, at thisss, the most important hour for all Panterran kind, then the Lygonss will have more than Wolfen-kind for their fooood.’
Orcalion, cringing, got to his feet, but remained bent over. ‘King Grimvaldr will fall, and Empress Mogahr will rise and reign supreme over all of this unworthy world.’ He continued bowing as he hurried from the tent.
Once outside, he glided away, pausing only to cast a glare back over his shoulder. ‘You will not be queen forever, old witch.’ He continued muttering to himself as a giant figure emerged from the darkness in front of him.
The Lygon general towered nearly a head above his own kind, and dwarfed the smaller Panterran. With his battle-scarred face and ogreish physique, Goranx was a monstrous devil, to be sure. Orcalion was relieved that the beast fought on their side.
He looked at the newly taken heads hanging from the Lygon’s belt and frowned. ‘Man-kind? There are more?’
Goranx shrugged. ‘Perhaps. They were good… Soft and sweet.’
Orcalion’s eyes narrowed slyly. ‘There is another in the Wolfen castle. The queen wants this one alive, but in battle things become confused… and lost.’
Goranx stared for a moment, as if trying to pull the hidden meaning from the small Panterran’s words. His broad mouth twisted into a cruel smile.
Orcalion knew that the queen would not get everything she wanted this day.
Chapter 43
Come the Far Wolfen
Onwards they ran — females, males, young and old — all those strong enough to wield a weapon. Foam flecked at the corners of their mouths, and tongues hung from fatigue.
Some ran in full armour, some in a leather battledress that was little more than a vest and a belt with a scabbard. Small bands in their dozens joined up with others, to form groups in their hundreds. The hundreds then joined together, until a bristling, jostling horde poured down from the hills, down into the outskirts of Valkeryn.
A howl echoed through the night air — then another, and another. From one side of the hills to the other, thousands were answering the call.
Some miles ahead of them, past the forests at the very foot of the hills, the fields crawled with the slow surge of bodies pushing through the long grass. Thousands of almost silent creatures snaked their way forward, and at a designated point they fanned out.
Prisoners were brought forward; their mouths tied shut and hands bound behind their backs. Grimvaldr’s colours were raised, and stakes were quickly hammered into the ground.
The prisoners were readied and then the horde sank down and waited for the coming tide of warm Wolfen bodies.
Chapter 44
The Long Night of War
Grimvaldr watched the approaching line of fire as it devoured the far hills beyond Valkeryn. The air rang with the sound of large drums beating out their advance, and from the stamping of thousands upon thousands of feet upon the hard-packed earth.
The king now wore his full armour, and the silver shone in the moonlight. He turned to his assembled generals.
‘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.’