by Greig Beck
‘Silence those words, Bergborr!’ The king pounded the table, his stentorian voice echoing around the stone room. He threw the punctured shield to the floor at the gathered warriors’ feet.
‘Could a wraith do that? No, the attackers were real. And if real, they can bleed . . . and die.’
Bergborr dropped to one knee. ‘Forgive me.’
Grimvaldr looked down at the warrior. ‘Rise. The unknown is our enemy now. There will be no talk of wraiths, or werenbeasts, or monsters from the darkness. What we seek will be made of flesh and blood and bone. It will be brought down by Wolfen steel, like all those who have made war on us in the past. But first we must know who or what it is we fight.’
The king motioned to the large double doors of the chamber. ‘Let us hear from the sciences. Bring them forth to show us what they have learned from the print we found at the battle site.’
The king sat back down as the massive oak doors swung wide and a broad, low cart was slowly hauled before him. Standing on the cart, a tall figure, draped with a heavy cloth, towered over the Wolfens’ heads as it was dragged past them, towards the king’s throne.
Shuffling up next to it, an elderly Canite in flowing robes bowed deeply. The king motioned for him to rise. He looked up at the cloaked figure.
‘So, Balthazar, it seems you have been busy.’
The other nodded. ‘We thought at first you gave us only a little to work with, but it turned out to be more than we needed, my king. The print was of the Panterran line – its shape is unmistakable. We have all the biological information we need on Slinkers, and know that a Slinker print of a certain size will determine the height and weight of the one who made it. The average size of one of their adult warriors is roughly a little over half as tall as a Wolfen, and their weight about fifty pounds, give or take.’
Turning, Balthazar reached towards the figure, then grabbed the sheet and tugged. It fell away, and the king’s eyes widened. The assembled warriors either cursed or gasped at the strange sight.
The king couldn’t help baring his teeth, and his strong fingers curled around the arms of his throne, splintering the hard wood.
The decloaked figure had been crafted from clay, and stood about nine feet in height. It was similar in shape to a Panterran, but had a heavily muscled torso, leading up to a head that was both terrifying and ferocious.
The king spoke slowly. ‘The head and fangs; how could you know this detail, just from the single print in the mud?’
Balthazar looked from the figure back to the king. ‘Not from the print, sire, but from other clues in the remains of the armour before you.’
Grimvaldr gazed from the punctured shield up to the giant creature’s fangs. He felt a moment of dread, but he knew he could not show it. Any display of fear or indecision on his part would sow seeds of doubt and despair among his warriors.
He stood and grinned at his assembled Wolfen.
‘So, mighty warriors, it looks like we may at last have a worthy foe to fight. We now know their shape, but we need to know their mind. Send the scouts immediately – they are to report back in two days. In the meantime, to all my generals, I command you to assemble your Wolfen warriors, and be ready to march after we have learned a little more from the field.’
The Wolfen bowed and banged their fists against their chests, and then headed for the large double doors that had been thrown open – each of them glaring at the clay giant as they passed by it.
Grimvaldr called softly to the last of them, ‘Karnak, wait a moment.’
The tall, heavily scarred warrior stopped and turned. The king strode around the table and took his friend’s arm. He nodded up towards the snarling figure. ‘What say you, son of the House of Karnak – could they be real?’
Karnak grunted. ‘I have heard talk of a race of terrible creatures from the far dark lands. Things that look like Slinkers, but are more powerful and brutish, and a hundred times more deadly. Do I think they are real? Who else could bring down our warriors so easily?’
The king sighed and stared off into the distance. ‘I have also heard those tales of the dark and unknown lands of the giants. I thought . . . I had hoped they were little more than legends . . . just like the rumoured sightings of the Old Ones every few generations. But we saw one, didn’t we, my friend?’
Karnak raised his eyebrows. ‘Two myths, seeming to take flesh at the same time, and the Panterran hordes pushing into our lands – do you believe there could be a connection?’
‘The Old Ones reappearing at the time of our greatest need? It is the oldest of our prophesies.’ He stared up into the clay figure’s snarling face. ‘And we have faced monsters before. Valkeryn has stood for a thousand years, and it will it stand for a thousand more.’ He turned back to Karnak. ‘I do not fear these giants . . . and I do not fear the Panterran hordes . . . but I pray that the two are not in league with each other.’
Chapter 13
I Also Like Sandwiches
Arn woke with a jolt. Everything was blackness; reaching up, he felt the bandages still over his eyes. He called out. ‘Hello?’
There was no answer. He waited a few moments, and then called out again – still silence.
He patted the soft bedding around him. He felt refreshed, and as the air was cool on his face he guessed he had slept for many hours, or perhaps he was deep inside some large building, away from the sunlight.
His hand went once again to his bandages; just as he began to tug at them, he heard the grating of steel on wood, and the sound of a heavy door creaking open. Footsteps. ‘Eilif?’
He continued to pull at his bandages.
A hand stopped him. ‘Be still. I am Morag, and with me is Birna. We’ve been sent to get you cleaned up, and to bring you food.’
The hand travelled down his arm and took his hand, placing it on a tray on his lap. Arn’s hunger flared in the pit of his stomach, and his fingers immediately felt around a plate what he hoped was food. ‘Thank you . . . Ah, what is it?’
Morag spoke again, ‘Meat, fruit, and even some raw fish that Eilif said you liked.’ He felt hands checking his hair, feeling its texture, or perhaps looking for any passengers he might have picked up,
‘Thank you.’ He lifted a slice of meat and sniffed it – it smelled like dried beef and he pushed it into his mouth, already watering in anticipation. It was delicious. ‘Yum. I also like sandwiches.’
There was silence, and Arn guessed the word probably made no sense to them, or they called it something completely different. ‘You know; it’s where you put the meat inside some bread.’ He waited – still nothing. He thought he understood why. ‘Okay, bread is where you get the tiny seeds of wheat and crush them to powder . . . Err, wheat is like a long type of grass . . . Anyway, then you mix in some water, salt and oil, until it’s a soft doughy paste.’ The hands left his head, and he waited in silence for a few moments more. For all he knew, they were probably all carnivores anyway; what would they know about bread? ‘Well, you bake it before you eat it – it’s really nice.’
He tucked more food into his mouth, and decided to change the subject. ‘Where’s Eilif?’
This time it was Birna who spoke. ‘She is bathing and getting dressed. She must meet with the king . . . and you have also been granted an audience. So you will need to be bathed and dressed also.’ The hands returned to his head.
Arn kept chewing, thinking over what he had just been told. Bathed? His hand went to his waist. His jeans, or what was left of them, had been removed, and he was naked under the sheets.
‘Ah, my pants?’ He felt about on top of the bedding that was, thank heavens, still covering him.
Birna laughed. ‘They were rags, sir . . . in pieces. We’ve kept all the items you carried, and while you slept we had your sizings taken, and sent to the tailor. New clothes will be here shortly.’ There was more laughing, and then, ‘Do you get cold?’
‘Huh, cold?’ Arn turned in the direction of the question.
�
��I mean, without fur.’
Arn laughed. ‘No, not really – not with clothes anyway. So, no, we humans don’t need fur.’
Birna was persistent. ‘But . . . you still have patches of fur on your head, and we saw, lower down, that . . .’
Arn pulled his blankets higher as Birna finished inspecting his scalp. ‘Clean – good. We can never be too careful after coming into contact with those dirty Slinkers; they’re covered in all sorts of horrible vermin.’
He felt Morag’s breath against his ear as she leaned near to him. ‘I’ve never actually seen one, a Slinker. Are they as ugly as they say?’
Arn remembered the flat face, the needle-like teeth, and yellow slitted eyes. And then the claws digging into his flesh. ‘Yes, both inside and out, I’m afraid. They’re not very nice . . . creatures.’
He sat in silence, thinking for a moment, then felt a weight on the bed next to him. It was Birna, he decided, as she took the plate from his hand. A piece of fruit was held to his lips. He bit into it, and raised his eyebrows – it was soft like melon, but tasted like apple and banana all in one.
‘Wow, that’s nice.’ He took the bowl. ‘I can do that, but thank you anyway.’ If they know of fruit, then maybe they aren’t total carnivores after all. He was relieved at the thought.
‘Yes sir, but you must eat.’ The weight lifted from the bed. ‘We’ll be back shortly to take you to your bath.’
‘Okay. And it’s Arn. Call me Arn.’
*****
A short time later, Arn was led down a cool corridor. He could smell stone, burning candles, and the floor under his bare feet felt cool and cobbled. He was desperate now to pull off his bandages, as there was so much that was fantastically new. Not being able to see it made him more impatient and anxious by the minute.
On leaving the bedroom, he had draped one of the blankets over his shoulder and wrapped it around his waist, Roman toga style, out of modesty. Even though physically they were quite different animals, and he thought he shouldn’t really care, he couldn’t help feeling awkward at being naked in front of them. Maybe he was worried he’d freak them out . . . or that they’d make fun of him.
After all, he still remembered the way Morag and Birna – and Eilif before them – had scrutinised him. He pulled the blanket tighter as it started to slip. The intelligence in Eilif’s eyes, her humour and vulnerability; he found it hard to think of her as not being just like him.
Suddenly he smelled her familiar cinnamon scent, and detected the soft padding footsteps of her approach. He felt her take his arm.
‘Enjoy your food?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t easy getting the fish – no one here even likes the smell.’
Arn turned to her and smiled. ‘Yes, thank you. But you’ll be pleased to know that fish is not part of my everyday diet.’
‘Good. I’d hate to think you were part Slinker. I mean, your face is flat enough.’ She squeezed his arm, and he felt, rather than heard, her laughing. There was silence for a few seconds as they walked, and even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was looking at him.
At last she spoke. ‘With that small nose, how do you smell?’
‘Excellent – but I’ll smell even better after my bath.’ He grinned, but he guessed she must have missed his joke. He felt her hand on his head, stroking his hair.
‘You have beautiful fur . . . What you have of it.’
Morag made a sound like a giggle, and Eilif growled back at her.
‘Err, thank you.’ Arn blushed. She touched one of his ears.
‘Amazing that you can hear at all with these little half circles . . . And you can’t turn them at all? You are a thing of wonders, Arnoddr.’ She stroked his hair one last time. ‘Enjoy your bath, Man-kind. The tailor has made you some fine clothing – you’ve got to look your best when you are presented to the king.’
‘The king? When?’
Arn heard Eilif’s footsteps fading down the corridor. She called back to him.
‘Soon . . . This evening. Don’t worry, brave warrior, I’ll be there to protect you.’ She laughed, but it was faint – she must have disappeared around a bend in the corridor.
*****
The bath was a gigantic wooden tub filled with warm water that was soapy, scented with something like cloves, and felt magnificent. He had soaked for what seemed like ages, letting the water ease the knots in his overworked muscles and spine. Even his multitude of cuts and abrasions had ceased to sting the longer he had relaxed.
On Birna and Morag’s insistence, he had finally climbed out, and he had needed to be just as insistent himself to keep his two attendants – or nurses, as he was starting to think of them – from drying him off and dressing him.
He took the rough towel that was offered and eventually managed to shoo them both away, their good humour reminding him of home and his family.
Arn heard the heavy door close behind them, and sat down, alone in his own personal darkness. In the silence of the bathing room, it occurred to him that everything he had known was probably dust a million times over; his family, his friends, Becky Matthews, even that ass Steve Barkin were now nothing but memories living in his head. It was such a miserable thought that, for the first time in years, he began to cry.
He had no idea how long he sat there, but when there came a knock on the bathing room door, he realised he was cold and dry. He turned in the direction of the doorway, expecting it to be one of his attendants, but instead a deeper, male voice addressed him.
‘I am the court physician,’ said the voice, Arn heard the door open, and felt a slight breeze as someone entered. ‘I’ve come to look at your eyes.’
Large hands gripped his head and the bandages were lifted away. Arn blinked, but immediately scrunched his eyes shut again – even in the muted candlelight, the glare was agony for him.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away tears of pain. Then he opened them again. Images swam slowly into focus, and though he should have expected it, he was startled to see an enormous wolf’s face staring hard into one of his eyes, then the other.
The physician used a glass lens to peer into each of Arn’s pupils. He grunted his approval.
‘Good. No permanent damage.’ He held up one clawed finger and moved it back and forth in front of Arn’s nose, expecting him to follow it. Arn found it hard not to look at the large, furred face, but did his best.
‘You are very lucky, young Man-kind. Not many have their sight return after having their eyes bathed by the venom of the jormungandr. It is a terrible creature.’
Arn shuddered in spite of himself. ‘Yes, it was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. Are there many creatures like that here?’
‘Not so many in our lands. But in the dark lands . . . there are even worse things.’
‘Worse things?’
The old physician patted Arn’s shoulder and turned away.
‘Wait . . .’
The physician stopped, half turned.
‘How . . .’ Arn wasn’t sure how to frame his question. ‘How did you . . . come to be? The Wolfen – err, Canites, I mean.’
The physician considered Arn thoughtfully, as if trying to determine the nature of the question – or, as Arn hoped, the best place to begin. Clearing his throat, he grasped the edges of his robe, like a lawyer in a courtroom.
‘We have always been, young Man-kind. Our pack, the Canites, have been here since the dawn of all things. The almighty Fenrir led us from the forests and taught us how to work together, how to live together, how to fight for our land and our race. The king is his descendant – only he knows more of our history, as it is passed down along his noble line.’
‘Fenrir. I’ve heard that name a lot. Who was he – your leader?’
‘Fenrir, may his name be blessed, is all things – our father, our spiritual leader, our teacher and our warlord.’
Arn nodded. ‘Did he teach you to talk? I mean, how did you learn to speak? And the Panterran – did he lead t
hem from the forests as well? Where did they spring from?’
The physician’s lips curled slightly at the mention of that hated name. ‘The Panterran crawled out of the dark. They are our opposites. They would destroy us and Valkeryn and everything it stands for if they could. If not for our Wolfen warriors, they would have overrun us a thousand years ago.
The more Arn learned, the more questions came to his mind. ‘You are Canites. And the Wolfen, they’re Canites too? Your warriors, right?’
‘Yes. A Canite trains for many years to become a Wolfen warrior. They are the elite guard of Valkeryn, and join the king’s army. The very best are picked to serve as the king’s personal bodyguard, or perhaps even become his champion, like Strom, son of Stromgarde.’
‘I’ve met Strom.’ Arn frowned. ‘Are there any other . . . types of, ah, races, other than Canites and Panterran in this world?’
The old physician folded his arms. ‘Not in these lands, but there are stories of other races beyond the dark borders.’ He sat down next to Arn and stared at the ceiling, thinking over his earlier question. ‘The great libraries talk of the time of the great fire, and how the many tribes and races were born within it. But how did we learn to speak? We have always spoken.’ He turned to Arn with a half smile. ‘Perhaps only now can we be heard, Man-kind.’
‘Man-kind – and what happened to Man-kind?’
‘There are a hundred different legends about them . . . about you. There are an unenlightened few who refuse to believe you ever existed, that perhaps you are nothing but a myth.’ The old Canite snorted softly. ‘So much for that story. But the most pervasive theory is that the Old Ones left this world long ago, and left it in our care.’
‘They left? But how . . . how did they leave?’
The physician shrugged. ‘Just stories and legends. In some tales, it is said they all flew away on ships of the sky. Others talk of them simply ascending to Asgaard as spirits. Still more tell that their spirits were released in the great fire. But in all, it is promised that there would be a return of the ancients one day, when we need them most. As I said, it’s all myth and legend, and though our explorers have found artefacts in certain deep caves, we cannot truly confirm whether these belonged to Man-kind, or some other race.’