Return of the Ancients

by Greig Beck

  The dead creature fell on top of Strom, pinning him flat, while the other put one large foot on his free arm. Orcalion crept closer and stood cautiously over his prone body.

  ‘I’m glad you will be dead soon,’ he hissed. ‘You have slain many of my people, champion puppet of an old king. And one cannot be champion forever . . .’

  Strom regarded Orcalion with glazed, staring eyes. ‘Another champion already rises, vile creature from the mire. And thousands more like me wait for you on the plains of Valkeryn.’

  Orcalion laughed. ‘Valkeryn? You won’t see it again . . . but it might see you.’

  He turned to the Panterran who had finally gathered enough courage to creep forward.

  ‘Take his head.’

  Chapter 34

  I Fear it Has Only Just Begun

  They crashed through the last line of brush at the edge of the fields leading to the castle, its spires just visible over the rolling hillsides.

  After running through the night and most of the day, they stumbled and shuffled forward. Fatigue weighed heavily on their bones. Sorenson put Grimson down onto the ground, and the young Wolfen woke as his feet touched the grass. ‘Are we home?’

  ‘Soon. Look.’ Sorenson pointed. ‘Riders already approach.’

  Arn was half carrying Eilif, who was breathing raggedly.

  ‘Thank Odin, it’s over,’ she murmured, as the banner of the king’s riders appeared over the hill.

  Arn looked at Sorenson, whose face looked grim. ‘It’s not, is it?’

  Sorenson shook his head. ‘I fear it has only just begun. They had gravilents in their forward camp. They are hard to control, but very effective in breaking through an army’s front line. They wouldn’t have them so close to the kingdom, if they didn’t intend to use them . . . soon.’

  Arn and Sorenson stood in silence. The Wolfen warrior’s eyes were glassy – and Arn wondered whether it was fatigue, or regret for leaving his brother behind.

  Arn reached out to grasp his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about Strom.’

  Sorenson just grunted.

  ‘Do you think that he could still be . . .?’

  ‘No . . . they wouldn’t take him alive. Strom wouldn’t let them.’ He gripped Arn’s forearm. ‘You are a brave creature, Man-kind, and you have a good and strong heart. Worry not about Strom. He is crossing the rainbow bridge to sit with Odin and the other champions of Asgaard. When the time is right, his sáál will return to us again.’

  Arn turned and tilted his head. ‘You believe in an afterlife then, and ahh, reincarnation?’

  Sorenson spoke without turning. ‘I don’t understand that word, but all Wolfen believe that a good spirit will be granted a place in Valhalla, and when Odin calls upon that sáál again, he may be granted another life. Perhaps again as a Wolfen.’

  He looked at Arn. ‘Perhaps you were once a Wolfen in a previous life . . . or maybe will be one in a life yet to come.’

  Arn smiled, but could see no humour in Sorenson’s features – the Wolfen believed what he said.

  The Wolfen riders were upon them then, and the first few leapt from their horses to run the last steps to embrace Sorenson. Arn saw that one young Wolfen, the dark-furred one he remembered from the king’s banquet, also dismounted and raced up to Eilif.

  Arn was left by himself. He watched as Grimson was lifted onto one horse, and the tall dark Wolfen led Eilif to another. A horse was then brought for him, and Arn climbed up into the saddle, at first with difficulty, but finally he managed to sit upright.

  Instead of simply lifting Eilif into the saddle, the dark Wolfen leapt up first and reached out his hand to her. Arn didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt awkward and intrusive for watching this moment of intimacy. It felt weird; he didn’t like it, and . . . what? He didn’t quite know what he was feeling. He turned away, but couldn’t help looking back.

  Eilif eyed the offered hand, and then shook her head and waved it away. The dark Wolfen looked taken aback – humiliated, even.

  Eilif glanced about, and then spotted Arn staring at her. She marched purposefully towards his horse. In a moment, she was beside him.

  ‘Scoot forward.’ Arn did as he was told, and she leapt nimbly up into the saddle behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

  He cast a furtive look at the dark Wolfen. The expression, if looks could kill, came to his mind as the spurned warrior’s eyes burned into him like twin flamethrowers. At that moment, Arn knew that not all in Valkeryn were happy to have him as part of their inner circle.

  Arn tore his eyes away and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Who’s the dark rider? Is he a special friend?’

  ‘No one but an ambitious warrior.’ Eilif snorted dismissively and kicked her heels into the horse’s flanks. ‘Let’s go – I need a bath.’ She pretended to sniff Arn’s neck. ‘. . . And so do you, phew.’ She laughed and hugged him tighter.

  Arn smiled. He couldn’t help it – he liked her.

  Chapter 35

  What Happened to My People?

  After returning to the castle, Arn was led to his room, and found it filled with food. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten in days, and gorged himself until his stomach felt like it was going to split. Then he undid his belt and lay on the bed.

  He breathed deeply. Safe . . . again, he thought. Then his thoughts turned to home, and he wondered about his parents, Edward and, of course, Becky. He imagined her long hair, and as she turned and smiled at him, he saw her eyes were silver blue, and her face was covered in fur . . .

  Arn shook the image from his head and rubbed his face, feeling the dirt and grease on his skin. His clothes itched, and looking across to a low bench near the window, he saw that there was a cloth and a large bowl of water.

  I should at least wash my face, and under my arms, he thought. He closed his eyes for a second. Maybe, I’ll just wash my face . . .

  He slept for nearly a day.

  *****

  He awoke to find Morag removing the remains of his meal, and wishing him a good day. The sun was already high in the sky and Arn reckoned it must have been close to noon. He sat up and eyed the cold leftovers as they were taken away, feeling hungry once again.

  Morag returned with a pile of towels. ‘And now, sir . . . Bath.’ She dropped a sack onto the ground. ‘And please put all your clothes into this bag.’

  Arn laughed. ‘Do I smell that bad? Are you going to burn them?’

  Morag laughed in return. ‘Yes, and yes.’

  He stopped laughing, suddenly feeling a little awkward. He had no idea how he really smelled to the Wolfen. They had an undoubtedly excellent sense of smell, so for all he knew, his odour was totally repulsive. He started peeling off layers and dropping them into the open sack.

  Morag watched him carefully, seeming to sense his embarrassment. ‘It’s the Slinker smell. We can’t stand it.’

  Of course, he thought. Just as the Slink . . . Panterran couldn’t stand the smell of the Wolfen.

  ‘Can I ask you something? Have the Wolfen and the Slinkers ever been friends? Have you ever tried to make peace with them?’ Arn wrapped a small towel around his waist.

  Morag’s face grew dark and she stared for a moment as if thinking carefully. She nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, we have tried. We have tried treaties, sent emissaries, entire peace delegations; for many centuries we have tried, but nothing has worked. Nothing ever works with them.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Wolfen die. Always the Wolfen die.’ She hefted the bag and straightened. ‘Their hatred runs deep. They do not want peace; they want only one thing – a world without us.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I think there may be some . . .’ Arn closed his mouth. He saw the sadness in her eyes, and wondered whether she had lost someone in their eternal war. And we thought we had differences, Arn thought.

  Morag pushed open the door and held it for him, waiting to lead him to the bath chamber.

  Arn raised his hand.
‘I know the way. Thank you.’

  She smiled, then headed in the opposite direction down the stone corridor. Arn passed a few other Canite females in the corridor, who stopped to stare, or held hands up over their faces to titter at his hairless body.

  The bath chamber was once again filled with steam, and a large tub filled with soapy water. New clothes were laid out once again – he noticed this time there was a dagger already hanging in the scabbard.

  Someone cleared their throat from within the cloud of mist, and Arn’s eyes were drawn to the other side of the chamber. Balthazar emerged from the steam like an apparition made solid. He bowed to Arn, then smiled and stepped to one side, gesturing to another figure standing mute behind him.

  Arn gasped – it was him – moulded from clay. Just like the mould of the Lygon, Balthazar had crafted a likeness of him in fantastic detail. Arn winced.

  The likeness was naked.

  ‘What do you think, Man-kind? Is it not like an image in a looking glass?’

  Arn bobbed his head from side to side. ‘It’s really good – the best I’ve ever seen. But where are my clothes?’

  Balthazar looked confused for a second, then pointed to the pile laid out for Arn nearby.

  ‘No, I mean on the likeness?’

  The court counsellor shrugged. ‘It is as you are, and as I observed you. Is it not correct in its anatomical detail?’

  Arn pointed to the model’s middle. ‘Yeah sure, but I don’t really like that everything about me is on display. Can you . . . Uh, can you put some clothes on it?’

  ‘I suppose so. But the King and his family approve of it. They want it in their private gallery.’

  ‘The king?’

  Balthazar nodded. ‘And the Queen.’

  Arn screwed up his face as if in pain, and spoke the next words slowly. ‘And . . . Eilif?’

  Balthazar nodded again, this time more vigorously. ‘Of course – she liked it the most. She said it was . . .’ He searched his memory for her exact words. ‘. . . Exciting.’

  Arn groaned. ‘Just put some clothes on it . . . please. We Man-kind have a thing called modesty, and don’t like to walk around naked.’

  Balthazar shrugged again, and gave a small surprised laugh. ‘And I thought that was just to stay warm without fur. Well, as you wish, young sir.’ He threw a sheet up over the statue, and sat down. ‘But until you arrived, we only had legends, and some old artefacts from the caves in the dark zones.’

  Arn climbed into the bath, keeping his towel wrapped around his waist until the last moment. He wasn’t keen to give the counsellor any further glimpses of his anatomy, which might make for future art or science exhibitions.

  He relaxed into the hot water, closing his eyes and sighing as his knotted muscles unwound. His eyes flicked open.

  ‘Caves, artefacts?’ He turned to look at Balthazar. ‘You mentioned those before, and . . . Vidarr, the archivist. I need to speak to him – find out what really happened.’

  Balthazar had the sheet off the model again, and was making some adjustments to Arn’s . . . bits. He spoke over his shoulder while he sculpted.

  ‘I can take you to him – or at least I can take you to where he should be. Actually finding him is another matter.’ Balthazar laughed and stood up. ‘Bathe, rest, and then eat. After that, if you still wish it, we shall try our luck.’ He nodded a farewell, and then left.

  Arn sank lower in the water, and looked again at the clay model. ‘And you put some pants on as well.’ He closed his eyes.

  *****

  Arn pushed his long hair back off his face and took a deep breath. Washed, clothed and fed, he felt human again. Human – I’m probably the only one in the world who feels that way now, he thought.

  As he strode down the stone corridor looking for Balthazar, Eilif silently fell in beside him.

  ‘You smell nice again.’

  ‘Not a Slinker stinker anymore?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  She laughed lightly at his words. ‘No, just the Arnoddr-Sigarr smell – nice.’

  Arn looked her up and down. She wasn’t wearing any of the clothing she normally wore around the castle – no heavy velvets, satins or embroidered silks. Instead, she had on a similar outfit to that which she had worn when she had rescued him from the Slinkers – pants, leather vest, and a fine chain mail – light but formidable. Her outfit was finished off with a sword strapped to her belt.

  ‘You going out again?’ He reached out and pinched the material of her vest.

  Eilif looked from his hand to his face. ‘Valkeryn is on a war footing now. All must be ready to fight at short notice.’

  ‘You’re seriously going to go into battle?’

  ‘Of course.’ She frowned, not understanding his question.

  ‘But you’re a princess.’

  She knocked his hand away. ‘And just a female – is that it? I don’t know what females were like in—’

  ‘No, I mean that you’re royal. It is important for you to be safe, for the good of the Canite population’s morale. Will the king go into battle as well?’

  ‘Yes. The king is a great warrior. It would be a waste of his skill for him not to fight . . . and bad for the population’s morale.’

  ‘But what if he falls?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘The king may fall – but Valkeryn will not, must not. All know what to do. All must fight.’

  Her eyes bore into his like chips of silver blue ice. He could see that she didn’t just believe she had to fight; she wanted to fight. After another few seconds, he nodded. She folded her arms and looked him up and down.

  ‘And where do you go in such a hurry, son of Man?’

  Arn motioned down the corridor with his head. ‘Looking for Balthazar. He’s going to take me to the archives, where we hope to find Vidarr.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Looking for clues.’

  She stepped closer to him. ‘What sort of clues?’

  ‘I’m looking for something—’

  ‘Like treasure, weapons or food?’ Her eyes lit up with excitement.

  ‘Something far more valuable than that, at least to me. I’m on the trail of what happened to my people.’ He started walking again.

  She skipped a few steps to catch up with him. ‘I’m going to help. I think I’ll like looking for clues, and finding out what happened to your pack.’

  *****

  Bergborr stepped back into the shadows.

  Neither Arn nor Eilif paid any attention to the dark corridor as they passed it – both were too engrossed in each other’s company.

  He stepped out again, knowing they wouldn’t see him. Why would they? he thought. She doesn’t even know I exist anymore – I might as well be vapour rising from a dying fire. His bitterness boiled inside him.

  He peered around the corner. His mouth turned down in distaste, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  The Slinkers should have finished him. The Man-kind needed to disappear, one way or another. Until then, Bergborr knew that he would be no more than an annoyance to the princess.

  He shook his head. When the Man-kind first arrived, he had taken Eilif’s infatuation with the hairless creature as being one of simple curiosity. He shuddered. It was turning out to be much more. Moving back into the shadows, he leaned his head against the cold stone wall.

  One way or another, he thought.

  *****

  Arn and Eilif met Balthazar in the courtyard and he walked them to the castle keep – the most ancient structure within Valkeryn’s walls.

  Arn was taken aback by the age-old building. While the walls, towers and castle of Valkeryn were old, it was still formidable and obviously well maintained. But this smaller structure reminded him of the old castles or temples that sit abandoned in unexplored jungles or on miserable hilltops in Scotland. The hard granite was weathered to a melted smoothness, and where once there were probably sharp spires and ornate carving it was now crumbled and degraded.

 
Arn imagined it had been a grand hall and set of rooms for the king and his family and perhaps that was about all. Maybe long ago there had been other buildings surrounding it for guards or servants, but now they were either long disintegrated or their bones had been incorporated into the massive edifice that Valkeryn had become.

  Balthazaar turned to Arn.

  ‘In the first days of our empire, this was all that Valkeryn was. The main halls were built over a natural maze of tunnels and caverns that were further excavated down many levels. The lower we descend, the older the artefacts we find.’ He smiled. ‘The problem is, the tunnels are near endless, and the only lighting is what we carry. Without the archivist’s knowledge, a Wolfen could search for a lifetime . . . as Vidarr already has.’

  Arn turned to Eilif. ‘Have you met this Vidarr?’

  Eilif shrugged. ‘Maybe when I was younger, but I can’t recall him.’

  Balthazar chuckled. ‘Not many have. He was old, even when I was a youth. And that was many, many years ago. Some say he is as old as Valkeryn itself, but that can’t be true, can it?’ He turned and winked at Arn.

  Balthazar stopped at a huge wooden door, with a ring for a handle and heavy brass rivets, giving it a solid, armoured appearance. He raised his fist and knocked. A deep echo could be heard from within. The echo died away, and they waited. Nothing.

  Balthazar looked at Arn, shrugged and then banged his fist once more. He leaned forward until his ear was against the wood. As before, there was no response, other than the lonely echo bouncing around the cavernous interior.

  Balthazar took hold of the ring, first with one hand, then with both. The ancient metal mechanism grated and squealed, but eventually turned. He put his shoulder to the door. ‘Give me some assistance; this weighs more than a veldoxer.’

  Arn had no idea what a veldoxer was, but guessed it was something heavy. He nodded to Eilif, and the three of them pushed on the door. There was a popping sound as the time-welded seals gave up their hold on the wood, and then the massive door swung slowly inwards, releasing a wave of odours – mouldy paper and mushrooms, or something else long dead.