by Greig Beck
‘I might be able to help. Could you take me to these caves?’
‘They are in the dark lands or lost. There may be maps, but the archives are so vast that you’d need another map just to find them . . .’ Balthazaar stopped and his brows knitted together. ‘. . . Unless . . .’
‘What? Unless what?’
‘Unless old Vidarr is still the archivist. He’s probably the oldest Canite in all of Valkeryn. No one has seen him for years, but . . .’ He slapped his thigh. ‘But enough of your questions. I am Balthazar, physician and chief scientist in King Grimvaldr’s court.’ He looked at Arn steadily with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I have seen many strange things in my lifetime, but I never expected to see . . . you. Now it’s my turn to ask some questions, Arnoddr-Sigarr. Where exactly did you spring from, and are you alone?’
Arn held his gaze for a few moments, trying to decide what to tell him. How to tell him? The castle, the Canites’ clothing, weaponry . . . everything was ancient, almost medieval. How could he describe being sucked into a black hole and thrown, he guessed, into some distant future? It would seem like magic or witchcraft.
Magic or witchcraft – the thought gave him an idea.
‘Do you believe in magic, Balthazar?’
‘I believe in the sciences, and also the mystical arts – light and dark.’
Good, thought Arn. This gave him some leeway to explain the inexplicable.
‘You asked where I sprang from? Well, I sprang from right here. Perhaps a million generations ago, or . . . or some long time ago anyway. But it was in the time of all Man-kind. Our people were testing a machine to . . . uhh, give us energy to power our lights and fires, and instead it opened a magical doorway, which I accidently fell through.’
Balthazar leaned forward, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. ‘Can it be opened again? Could I go through it, or at least see through it, to your time?’
Arn shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I can’t be sure, but I think it closed after I arrived, and I’m not sure anyone can open it again . . . at least not from this side.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I hope that someone is trying to open it again, so I can get home.’
‘I would give anything for one glimpse of your time – the legends have it that it was a paradise. Is it true that in the time of Man-kind, there was no war? That there was no disease and no famine, and that everyone lived a long and full life of happiness?’
Arn thought for a moment that he was joking. ‘No, not in my time. There was still war and hardship. And like here, there was good and evil.’
‘And the Canites? Were they friends of Man-kind? Were Man-kind and Canite brothers?’
‘Ahh, yes . . . Yes, of course you were there. You were . . . man’s best friend.’
Balthazar nodded, pleased. ‘I knew it would be so.’
Arn shivered, and for the first time noticed the clothes and boots stacked beside him on the bench. There were soft fabrics with gilt edges, silver buttons and shining leather – it looked almost regal. There was even a scabbard for a sword . . .
Balthazar got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. Of course, you are cold and I am keeping you. It must be terrible not to have fur. But we must talk more later; there is so much I wish to know.’
‘You and me both, Balthazar.’
‘I shall see you in the eve.’ He bowed and headed for the door.
Arn started pulling on his clothes. ‘I have to meet with the king. Will you be there?’
‘Of course, young Man-kind.’ Smiling, Balthazar moved to close the large door behind him as Morag and Birna, who had obviously been waiting outside, pushed their way past. He nodded to them and disappeared.
Together they circled Arn, tightening straps, straightening robes, and showing him where the sword scabbard should hang.
Arn grabbed it and pointed. ‘There’s something missing.’
Morag laughed. ‘Soon enough. A stranger doesn’t enter the king’s court when he is armed. Wait until he sees if you are a friend.’
Birna leaned closer. ‘But we already know you are. We’ve been told.’
‘How? Who told you that?’
She placed her finger on a small silver crest sewn into his vest. It depicted a snarling wolf with red eyes.
‘You have friends in high places, Arnoddr-Sigarr.’
Chapter 14
In the Hall of the King
Arn sat on a wooden bench in the long, cold corridor. On either side of an enormous wooden door, a guard stood in full armour, enormous steel axes cradled in their arms. Both treated Arn as though he didn’t exist. Morag and Birna sat across the corridor on another bench, talking quietly together, occasionally turning to nod and smile, as if to reassure him. It didn’t work. He shivered again, and felt slightly sick.
What could possibly go wrong? he thought. I’m about to have a meeting with a pack of giant upright wolves.
Through the door, he could hear many voices. Some were raised in argument, but comfortingly there was also laughter – he hoped that whatever was going on inside was just a friendly gathering. He’d just have to pop in, say hello, then he’d be ushered back out again – no problem.
He studied the corridor; it was old – very old – but in magnificent condition. The flagstones had been polished by generations of footsteps, and the walls’ and ceiling’s ancient granite blocks were smooth and seamless. There were carved corbels and ornate arches, and every twenty feet or so, small alcoves contained a single portrait. Some looked contemporary and of the type of Wolfen he had already encountered, and others looked far older, the creatures more primitive, more like . . . large dogs standing upright. Everything gave the impression of ancient power, and a sense of . . . permanence.
Morag gave him a little wave to catch his eye. She smiled and nodded towards the large double doors. He noticed that both hers and Birna’s ears were pointed towards them, as was their gaze. He gulped. Moments later, the doors were pulled smoothly inwards, and a large warrior stood staring down at him, motioning with one arm for him to enter. The guards on either side of the door stood back and finally acknowledged his existence – both had turned to glare.
Arn stood slowly, his knees shaking, and looked desperately towards his two nurses, hoping they were also preparing to enter the imposing room. They smiled and nodded, but held their ground. At last, Birna pointed inside and said, ‘Only you are invited, Arnoddr-Sigarr; it is a great honour.’
Nodding, he walked stiff-legged through the doorway. He felt exactly the same when he won the history award and had been asked to address the entire school on prize-giving day – except this time he was walking into a room full of non-humans, in some other, weird time zone, after fighting and then being blinded by a monster in a cave. Yep, exactly the same – he felt sick again.
Arn drew in a long, shuddering breath and stepped inside. His first impression was of warmth and light – lots of light, from the golden blaze of burning torches lining the walls, standing on the tables, and in huge burning cauldrons hanging from the ceiling.
There were many warriors, though few in armour, with some preferring clothes similar to the ones he had been given – boots, jerkins and vests with differing crests sewn over the heart. None he could see were like his, with the red-eyed wolf.
The Wolfen who had bade him enter the room kept one huge hand on Arn’s shoulder as he guided him towards the front of the room; the crowd parted around them. There were both males and females, and all looked at him with a mixture of awe and suspicion, and perhaps just a little fear. He heard a soft word spoken from the far end of the hall; there, one figure was seated, and others stood – six of them, three on each side of the huge Wolfen throne.
Arn was so nervous that he almost felt disconnected from his body – as if he were somehow watching the strange events from just above his own head. He tried to calm himself, but the unblinking gaze of the seated wolf terrified him. He was older than most around him, and huge. He was dressed in crimson robes pressed with knotted leathe
r, sewn crests, and silver. There were no jewels, exotic fur trimming or garish displays of wealth; instead, this looked to be the cloak and vestments of a warrior king.
Arn looked at the face: the eyes were like silver blue gun barrels – he had seen those eyes before somewhere, but his mind refused to give up any clues. They seemed to stare right through him, right into his very soul.
The king’s nose twitched, and a small smile played at the corner of his lips, just under the long, silvering snout. This was enough to break the spell, and enable Arn to pull his gaze away and look at the other Wolfen standing by the throne.
On one side stood a female, tall and fine featured. She seemed roughly about the same age as the king, and rested one of her hands on his shoulder.
The queen, he thought.
Just behind her were stood two smaller figures. One, he immediately recognised – it was Eilif, secretly waving with the hand on her hip. Just beside her, staring wide eyed in wonder, was an even younger wolf.
The eyes, thought Arn. I recognise them. The young Wolfen ducked back behind Eilif and Arn turned his attention to the other side of the throne. There stood several warriors, all powerful-looking and fearsome; the largest, easily a head taller than the rest, was the one he knew as Strom – he remembered what Balthazar had told him – the king’s champion, and the one who had saved them in the jormungandr cave.
All three had their hands on the hilt of their swords, which were half as long as Arn was. He had no doubt that if he made one threatening move, they would have cut him down faster than he could blink.
There were murmurs now coming from all sides, but the king just sat and studied him. Even Eilif had her eyes on the king – watching, waiting for something, some sign or gesture from him.
It was becoming unbearable. Arn had no idea of protocol, of what was expected. Magic tricks? He wondered.
‘Greetings, sire,’ he said at last. ‘My name is Arnold Singer.’ He bowed slightly.
The young wolf beside Eilif drew in a breath, and his eyes widened even further, if that was possible. Arn heard him whisper to Eilif, ‘He can talk.’
The king smiled and nodded, as though the simple words and introduction were enough.
If it was a test, then it was an easy one, Arn thought.
‘You’re not as tall as I expected, Man-kind. What is your age?’
‘Ahh, seventeen years . . . and nine months, your high-nesty . . . I mean, majesty.’ Arn cleared his throat, his nerves making it and his chest feel tight.
The king sat forward. ‘Son of Man-kind then . . . and to what age do your people live?’
Arn shrugged. ‘Depends. But it could be anywhere from eighty to a hundred years.’
There were gasps from the assembled crowd, and the king raised a hand to quiet them.
‘That is longer than the oldest Wolfen by many years. But you are not a speck of that oldness – in fact, I believe you are not fully grown at all yet, young Man-kind.’
He motioned over his shoulder to Strom. As the giant Wolfen stepped forward, Arn saw him up close for the first time – and this time without the burning poison of the jormungandr to blur his vision. The king’s champion was even bigger than he remembered. Arn guessed he stood close to seven feet tall, and even without armour his shoulders were as wide as any linebacker Arn had seen on television back home. His face showed scars old and new, and the fur looked like it struggled to regrow over some of the rents in his flesh.
The king pointed to his champion. ‘Will you grow as tall as Strom?’
Arn looked up the Wolfen warrior, and an image of his father leapt to his mind, making him momentarily homesick. He drew in a breath and tried to focus on the question.
‘My father is . . . was a tall man. And there are some men who are as tall as Strom. But me? No, I won’t grow as tall – I’m pretty average height . . . for a Man-kind, I guess.’
While the king thought this over, Arn looked around and spotted Balthazar, who had been scribbling notes or sketching while they had been talking. The scientist looked up and caught his eye. He nodded. Arn returned the greeting and felt more confident – perhaps it was the thought of having some friendly faces in the room, or maybe it was due to the slow rise of the moon, its glow flooding in through the high windows.
He resolved to speak further, and turned back to the king. ‘My name is Arnold Singer. I have arrived in your land by accident, and I am a long way . . . and I believe a long time, from home.’ He waited. No one said a word, so he hurriedly added, ‘I come here as your friend.’ The seconds stretched.
‘I know you are our friend, Arnoddr.’ It was Eilif, but immediately the king raised one large hand in front of her, and she fell silent.
The king spoke again. ‘I have been told of your escape from the Panterran, and of the encounter in the jormungandr hole. It seems you have a knack for finding this world’s worst elements, young Man-kind.’ He turned briefly to Eilif and smiled. ‘But without you, perhaps my daughter would not be here today. For that, you have my thanks.’
The king’s daughter! thought Arn, and gulped.
The king rose to his feet. ‘I am Grimvaldr, son of Grimkell, and bloodline of the mighty Fenrir himself.’ He glanced again at his daughter. ‘And I think we are all prone to being overly quick to speak our minds. But we are also a good judge of noble character, and we see that in you, young Man-kind.’
His expression grew dark. ‘I saw you days ago on the ridge above the killing fields. I thought you were a vision at first, an omen. Your name itself, Arnoddr-Sigarr, means bringer of victory to us.’
The king sat back down, and continued to study his guest. ‘And perhaps you are an omen. I shall grant you shelter among us, but know that soon all of Valkeryn may be called upon to fight.’ He looked hard at Arn. ‘Will you fight with us, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’
Arn wanted to say yes immediately, but the closest he had ever come to fighting was arguing in the canteen line with Edward over the last piece of pie. In Valkeryn, fighting meant something frighteningly real – something bloody, brutal and deadly.
‘I’m not sure how to fight . . . but I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’ It was the best he could offer.
Eilif stepped up beside the king and whispered to him. He snorted, then nodded. She walked quickly towards Arn, reaching into the folds of her cloak, and removed a small silver dagger, which she offered to him.
‘We can teach you to fight, Arnoddr, but it helps to have a weapon.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Arn said – and it was. Just under a foot in length and of highly polished silver, the familiar snarling wolf with its red eyes was moulded into the pommel. Arn slid it into his empty scabbard and leaned towards her to whisper, ‘Guess I’m not a risk anymore.’
‘You never were to me.’ She smiled and dipped her head, looking up at him from under her ash silver brows. Turning, she bowed to Grimvaldr, and then stepped back up behind him.
Grimvaldr leaned forward in his large throne, the wood creaking under his weight.
‘Good – all help is needed in these dark times. But for one who says he cannot fight, I have been told you seem to have a mighty arm. Perhaps it just needs to be trained, eh, Andrejk?’
Across the hall, a Wolfen stepped forward, grinning. Part of his forehead was shaved, and stitches zippered a long wound. Under his arm he carried his helmet, and he lifted it, and looked at it briefly, before turning it around for the king and Arn to see.
‘There were more dangers in the jormungandr hole than we expected.’ The warrior’s grin broadened.
Arn saw the huge dent in the steel, matching the position of the scar on the warrior’s head. He remembered lashing out in the cave, when he thought he was being attacked. Oh crap, he thought.
‘I saw stars for two days.’ Andrejk didn’t seem angry with him at all.
The other Wolfen laughed, and one next to Andrejk slapped him on the shoulder.
‘There was nothing inside that thick skull to dam
age.’ He slapped Andrejk’s shoulder again.
The king turned back to Arn. ‘With such an arm, perhaps we should be grateful that you have chosen to help us.’ He stood and waved towards the far end of the room. ‘Come, dine with us. I’m sure you have more questions . . . as do we. In this kingdom, food and conversation always go hand in hand.’
The doors at the end of the hall were thrown open and the small crowd moved towards it. Arn stood watching for a moment, unsure what he should do, until he felt a tug on his arm. Looking down, he saw the young Wolfen who had been standing just slightly behind Eilif and the queen. His eyes were still very round.
‘You can talk. I thought you were only a story made up by my father and Balthazar.’ He let go of Arn’s forearm and banged a small fist on his chest. ‘I’m Grimson, son of Grimvaldr.’
Arn laughed and sank to one knee, to look him in the eye. He held out his hand.
‘And I am Arnold Singer . . . ah, son of Johnson Singer. My friends call me Arn.’
The young Wolfen looked at the hand for a second or two, seeming unsure what to do with it. Arn decided to help and reached out to grab Grimson’s hand and shake it.
‘Nice to meet you, Grimson.’ Arn shook the small hand some more. ‘And this is how my people greet each other.’
Grimson smiled and kept pumping Arn’s hand up and down, looking back and forth from it, to Arn, with great amusement. After a moment, he stopped and turned Arn’s hand over in his, to study it.
‘You aren’t totally hairless, are you? I can feel some hairs there.’ He looked up. ‘Will they get thicker as you get older?’
Arn shrugged. ‘Yes, but not ever as thick as your magnificent fur. In fact, as I get older, I may lose some of the hair on my head.’