Valkeryn 2: The Dark Lands

by Beck, Greig

  He nodded. ‘And you will soon. It hurts, but only for a minute.’

  Briggs stayed put. ‘You told them about our infrared armaments.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, they got that all by themselves. You’ll soon see. Come closer.’

  ‘Like hell I will.’ A thud in the back and Briggs was propelled forward into the waiting grasp of the queen, whose claws immediately penetrated the flesh of her temples. Briggs ground her teeth – physical pain was something she understood, and could control.

  The talons dug in further and moved around, searching. It was a red-hot agony, but Briggs almost laughed in contempt. She could take it easily. The queen’s hissing became words, but when the probing tried to intrude deep into her brain, Briggs built a mental wall made of iron, concrete, bulletproof ceramics. The hot lava flow of intrusion smashed up against it, but through sheer will Briggs’ mental wall held.

  ‘That’s all you got, you old of bag of crap?’ Tears ran down Briggs’ cheeks and she ground her teeth. The pain in her temples increased as Mogahrr pressed harder. Briggs felt perspiration running down her face, and she ground her teeth so hard, she felt a chip of a molar break off. She swallowed it. The torrent of red-hot liquid pain poured into her mind and crashed against her barrier, faster, harder and deeper. Her mental wall bent and groaned from the attack, but still it held.

  Mogahrr pulled her the long talons from Briggs’ flesh and sat back.

  ‘Ssstrong mind, ssstrong body – a feeemale of hiiigh order – warrior classss. And moreee of yooou now in ouuur landsss.’ She leant forward. ‘Your knowledgeee isss now the property of the Panterran raccce. You wiiill give it freeeely, or you wiiill give it assss the undead.’

  Briggs spat blood to the floor and laughed. ‘You tickle my head, and then think I’m gonna help you and your ugly midgets?’ She laughed again. ‘But you got one thing right – there’s more of us than you can count, and we’ll cut through you like a knife through butter, you mangy old bag of crap.’

  Mogahrr sat staring for several seconds, before she lifted a hand and pointed to Jackson. She spoke over his head to the giants.

  ‘Weee do not neeeed thssis one, he isss yooours.’

  The great creatures burst forward and grabbed the kneeling man. In a matter of seconds, his armored vest was ripped free, and a fountain of blood shot into the air. The creature’s roars became deafening, and drowned out the screams of the soldier. Briggs only watched for a moment before turning away, the sound of ripping flesh in her ears. She had seen too many soldiers torn or blown apart to be traumatized, but still she didn’t need to watch one of her team be devoured before her eyes.

  She swallowed, feeling an acidic lump of nausea in her throat, and tried to keep her voice even when she spoke. ‘We all die.’

  ‘But nooot beforeee doing theee bidding of Queen Mogahrr.’ Now it was the old creatures turn to laugh. She motioned again and a box was brought to her, which she rested on her lap.

  ‘Ssstrong mindsss, just neeeed a little ennncouragement.’ She held out one long hairless hand again, and a pair of long nosed forceps was placed into her palm. With her other hand she lifted the box lid, and then dipped the instrument into its dark cavity, lifting free what looked like a soft bean.

  As soon as the thing was exposed to the light it wriggled, stretched and then drooped. It quickly looped back on itself, trying to get at the forceps. It was some sort of worm or slug, and Mogahrr brought it close to her bony wrist, allowing the thing to latch onto her flesh for a second, before she pulled it away. A dot of blackish blood welled up where it had touched her skin. The thing twisted and writhed, seeming agitated by the brief taste of blood.

  ‘Nowww it knooows me.’

  Mogahrr nodded and Briggs was held by one of the enormous beasts. Her shoulders were gripped by hands that covered her entire upper arms; the clench was unbreakable and crushing. Slowly she was pushed forward, her head dipped towards the old creature now holding the slug thing out toward her face.

  Briggs turned her face to the youths. Rebecca had covered her eyes, and Edward simply mouthed sorry.

  Not a great day at the office, Briggs thought, as she strained her neck, trying to duck and move away from the hands trying to hold her steady. Eventually her head was gripped and Mogahrr brought the forceps up beside her face, all the time the queen’s virulent yellow eyes staring into hers. They were as inhuman and evil as anything the colonel had ever seen in her life.

  The flat face broke into a smile, her dark gums pulling back to reveal snaggle teeth, blackened by decay. The breath that dribbled out nearly made the soldier gag – she would have, if not for her rising panic over the revolting thing being lifted towards her ear.

  ‘And nowww it will know youuu.’

  The worm’s head extended like taffy as the grub reached out for her, eager to find its way into its new home. Briggs’ eyes were round like a startled horse, and she struggled vainly against the powerful hands that held her. In her periphery she could see the Panterran surrounding the chair lean forward, eager and excited. Edward’s face showed revulsion, and Rebecca kept her face buried in her hands.

  The soft wetness touched her outer ear and stuck, then slid deeper. Briggs screamed, and then vomit exploded from her mouth as the physical sensation combined with the horror of the unknown. The elite soldier had been trained to resist physical and mental torture, but this was something that no human being could ever be prepared for.

  ‘No, no, no.’ She thrashed and tried to pull away. ‘You motherfu… mark my words, there’ll be a hell-storm that rains down on your heads, and we’ll be the ones bringing it.’ She bucked and jerked, but the grip on her body was unmovable.

  Mogahrr brought her own face close to Briggs’ again. ‘Yessss, and you wiiill bring it… and then weee wiiill own it. Everything in thssis land now beeelongsss to the Panterran, including yooou and all yooour people. Perhapsss even thossse in your ooown world… sssoon.’ The old creature laughed as the wet thing extended itself fully into her ear. It tickled at first, and then Briggs felt a build-up of pressure against her eardrum, before tickle-pressure turned to white-hot pain and the worm pushed its way through the skin of the drum itself.

  Pain, ice cold, and then, blackness. When the light came back, her mental wall of iron and concrete was no more, and in its place, a voice… the old thing’s voice. It dominated, controlled, and owned her. When it asked a question, she answered. Briggs wanted to run or fight, or anything, but it was like her old self was caged, forced to watch, as her body and soul acted like a puppet on strings being pulled and played by someone else.

  Underestimation is the seed of defeat – underestimation is the seed of defeat. The line from an old dead general kept repeating over and over in her head. She hoped Samson and Teacher would do better.

  *

  Becky had turned away to throw up onto the stone floor of the throne room, and Edward watched with his teeth ground together, as if he felt the horror and pain of the once formidable colonel as the pale worm thing disappeared into her ear.

  After Briggs was released she had thrown herself to the ground, rolling and holding her head, writhing in pain. Blood had burst from her nose, but then, as if a switch had been thrown, she became calm.

  Mogahrr wheezed her laugh and sat forward with a smile of accomplishment on her black lips.

  Briggs sat up, and then on command stood. She looked half asleep or drugged, her eyes half lidded and dopey. Streams of fluid ran from her nose – perhaps some sort of cranial discharge. Edward had no idea what the thing was doing inside her head.

  Mogahrr sat forward, clasping her hands together in anticipation. ‘Teeell me of yooour world, and howww you came to beee heeere. ’ Her yellow gaze burned as she stared into Briggs’ now compliant eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Perhaps They Come to Ma
ke

  War on All Creatures

  Vidarr turned and placed one old boney finger against Balthazaar’s lips. Though they sat in complete darkness in one of the dozens of secret passages in the castle, he knew that the senses of the Panterran were not to be underestimated. Together he and the former king’s counselor watched the proceedings through a slit in the mortar of the throne room.

  They listened in dismay as the female Man-Kind warrior related the fantastic weapons her group possessed. Balthazaar knew that Mogahrr would waste no time in trying to secure them.

  Vidarr whispered close to Balthazaar’s ear. ‘We must warn the Man-Kinds. They will be slaughtered if we do not.’ Vidarr turned back to the slit in the thick wall.

  ‘I fear these Man-Kind are not as the Arnoddr, and that they came to make war on all creatures of Valkeryn. Perhaps if there were Wolfen here, then Wolfen would be their game,’ Balthazaar whispered.

  Vidarr turned, his eyes shining in the darkness. ‘But there are no Wolfen, my friend. The Man-Kind are all that stands between a world dominated by the Panterran, and perhaps a return of our people one day.’ He turned back to the wall. ‘Once the Panterran have the new weapons, there will be no stopping them… ever.’

  Balthazaar nodded even though he knew the old archivist couldn’t see him in the dark. ‘And what of the friends of the Arnoddr?’

  ‘We must try and rescue them… somehow. Leave that to me.’

  Balthazaar reached out to place his hand on the old Wolfen’s shoulder. ‘A difficult task, old warrior scribe.’

  Vidarr snorted. ‘Not as difficult as yours, young counselor, for you must find the Man-kind warriors before the Panterran do. You must make them understand. You must make them our allies, before Mogahrr takes their heads as her trophies of war.’ He turned and his eyes glinted silver in the dark. ‘Take the language stones, and leave now. Time is already against us.’

  *

  Balthazaar eased the trapdoor upwards, the ancient hinges eliciting a scream of protest at being called to action after many decades of idleness. Light streamed into the underground tunnel which had taken him far out past the forest line.

  He lifted his head slowly, to sniff the air. There was nothing on the breeze save the healthy smells of the deep forest. He raised his head further and looked around – as he hoped, he was a long way from the walls, and well out of the castle lands. He had expected to have many hours head start on the Panterran and Lygon. Now he must use them wisely.

  Balthazaar quickly clambered onto a lichen-covered tumble of boulders and then eased the door shut behind him, branches closing over it like thick green drapes. The concealment was good – he hoped he could find it again on his return… if he returned.

  When Vidarr had led him up and out of the deep archives, the old Wolfen had revealed the extent of the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the kingdom. They were hidden highways, the internal veins and arteries running right throughout the body of the castle and the lands beyond. It was no wonder, thought Balthazaar, that no one had seen the old archivist for many decades. The ancient Wolfen hadn’t been a recluse; he had been with them, watching them, for generations.

  Balthazaar leaped to the forest floor, and immediately started to run – it would be many hours before he came across the Man-Kind warriors. His assumption was that they had crossed the wastelands along the same course Arn had taken when he first arrived. He moved fast, but he knew he also needed to be careful; he expected the warriors from the Arnoddr’s time would treat anything and everything with distrust – him included.

  Thinking of the Arnoddr brought back fond memories for him to contemplate as he ran. The stories he told of his time and his people made them sound a wonderful race – peaceful, wise and kind. He would do everything he could to head them off before the Lygon and Panterran confronted them – they’d be slaughtered, and no match for the brutal denizens of this world.

  Balthazaar glanced skyward as he ran, noticing the sun was directly overhead – it was middle-day before he had even realised it. He crashed to a stop and held onto a tree limb, his breath heaving in and out.

  I’m too old for this, he thought. He hadn’t run so much for half a lifetime, and though his Wolfen body was made for long distance running, age was slowing him.

  Getting old is a terrible thing.

  He pushed off and continued. He expected the Lygon would only travel half as fast as he. They were usually slow, only capable of speed in short bursts. Balthazaar knew he’d need extra time to try and communicate with the Man-Kind. To help with this, Vidarr had given him the communication stones – one of the artifacts recovered from the forbidden zones. Something from the Ancients themselves or some other great race that might have visited them many years ago.

  He felt them in his pocket as he ran. The half-dozen small shiny objects were designed to allow communication between any sentient creatures – at least that was the legend. No one had ever had reason to use them before, as the modern creatures of the world all spoke with the one voice.

  Balthazaar slowed again, and then stopped, listening. He tried hard to close his mouth and ease his breathing – he needed all his senses now in case there was immediate danger. He concentrated. It wasn’t any particular noise that alerted him, but the lack of sound. There was no chirruping of tiny things, no bird song, not even the snuffling of something small pushing through the underbrush. He eased behind a tree trunk, and lifted his head and sniffed; a salty smell similar to the sweat he had detected on the Arnoddr. Some sort of sweet perfume, and the smells of leather and oil – all of them, the scent of Man-Kind.

  They were near.

  His heart started to race – had they seen him already? He tried to think. How should he present himself? How could he gain their trust quickly? He didn’t have time for long drawn out games of communication. He tried to remember the talks he had with Arn, wracking his memory for clues to the exchanges.

  He was wasting valuable time. He pulled a scrap of cloth from his robe, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped out.

  ‘Arnoddr Sigarr. Arnoddr Sigarr.’ He waved the cloth high, keeping his hands up. He waited, holding his breath, but there was nothing. He lowered his arms. Perhaps he had been wrong. He reached for the communication stones.

  The explosive crack came from slightly ahead of him, and immediately a thud on his chest kicked him off his feet. His ribs burned like nothing he had felt in years. As his vision clouded, he saw multiple bodies crowding around him. One put a boot on his chest, and pointed something at his face.

  There came another thud.

  *

  The running Delta Force came up in two columns of ten. Half a click out in front, two point men moved lightly through the forest; weapons up and ready. On the barrel of their rifles were motion sensors that could detect larger moving objects long before they could be picked up by line of sight.

  Rodriguez spoke into his cuff mike. ‘Simms, got a warm body, coming in fast. Hold your position.’

  Immediately into his ear he heard Teacher who had been listening in from their rear.

  ‘No take-down until we see what we’ve got. Clear?’

  ‘Clear.’ Came back in unison.

  ‘I want them alive – use kinetic rounds.’

  Rodriguez swore under his breath. Kinetics were rubberized rounds – slower velocity and low chance of penetration and damage. He reached into his belt and grabbed two of the long bullets.

  He thought for a moment and then let one go, keeping the other and loading it into the breach of his gun. He then got down on one knee beside a tree, his body presenting a half silhouette with his eyes and gun barrel facing the approaching figure. About fifty feet across from him, the other point man, Simms, was doing the same.

  ‘I got this, Simms.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Simms never took his eyes off
the forest.

  Rodriguez thought he’d give whatever it was a single rubber round. If it kept coming, then he’d give it a live one, and send it straight back to hell. He had watched the film of the Green Berets being taken down, feeling a mixture of anger and fascination at the footage. The orange and black things were monsters. Also, the beasts that had been crucified in the desert were bigger than men, and looked pretty tough. This place seemed a world of horrors, and now those horrors were taking his team.

  He narrowed his eyes and sighted on the movement.

  Jackson had been his friend. Whatever was coming at them was not going to take anyone else. He wanted payback, and he wanted blood.

  The figure stopped behind a stand of trees. It can’t have seen them, but had somehow figured out they were there. Damned clever, but I can be patient too, he thought. Come to papa. He waited…

  … and waited.

  He swore softly. Samson and the rest of the Deltas would catch up soon. He needed to take his shot. Just as he contemplated moving forward to flush it out, a large figure stepped from behind the trees.

  It was still about eighty feet out from him, tall and lean, and slightly bent. He used his scope – it looked like one of the creatures they had seen nailed to the crosses. It waved a small white piece of cloth and shouted something over and over. It stopped and lowered its arms.

  ‘It’s reaching for something.’ Rodriguez pulled the trigger, and hit the figure dead centre. It blew back a few feet, and he raced over. ‘Gimme some cover, Simms.’

  Rodriguez flew over the fallen logs and bracken, and stood over the creature, looking down with a curled lip of disgust.