Return of the Ancients

Chapter 18 Fenrir’s Gift

Early the next morning, Sorenson led Arn out into one of the castle’s enclosed forecourts, where they were met by a large and enormously overweight Wolfen with a huge, soft leather roll at his feet.

‘Olaf.’ Sorenson bowed his head in acknowledgment.

The round Wolfen grunted and looked Arn up and down with a critical eye. He walked around him, prodding and poking, and tsk-tsking every few seconds — his chubby face bearing an expression as if he had just seen a spider on his piece of lunch-cake.

From his pocket, he produced a length of string knotted every inch or so along its length, and held it across Arn’s shoulders, ran it down his arm to his wrist, the length of his leg, and then wound it around his head.

Arn tried to keep still, but found it extremely unsettling when Olaf brought his long snout in close to Arn’s face, studying his features from one angle, then the next. Olaf shook his head and muttered something, probably about the dimensions of Arn’s head — or more likely, lack of them.

He stood back and nodded to Sorenson.

‘Good.’ Sorenson clapped his hands together and motioned with his head to the chubby Wolfen. ‘Olaf is the royal armourer and ironmonger. He’ll make some war armour for you. Today, we’ll just get a feel for the basic skills.’

‘Okay,’ Arn said, and Sorenson turned to the heavy Wolfen and spoke a few soft words that sounded like, korte sverd. Olaf knelt and unfastened the leather roll, laying it out to reveal a variety of swords and clubs — all wooden.

Arn stooped to pick up the biggest sword he could find. Before his fingers closed around its hilt, Olaf grabbed his hand, turned it over, and stuck a medium-sized sword into it. The ironmonger handed another to Sorenson. It seemed the choice of weapons had already been made.

Sorenson swished his sword back and forth in the air a few times, before turning to Arn. ‘The lesson for today is a simple one — don’t get hit.’

He pointed his sword at Arn’s throat. ‘A Wolfen must know how to strike well. But there is much more to fighting than that. What good is a strike, if you too are hit in a vital area? Even Strom might find it difficult to fight with the thinnest sword piercing his heart.’

Sorenson reached forward and grabbed Arn’s arm. ‘Having the strength to split a stump is a magnificent asset — especially when battling the likes of a jormungandr, werenbeasts, or even thylakines. But against a couple of small, fast-moving Panterran, you’d be so full of holes, you’d leak like a fugl net.’

Sorenson placed his own sword under his arm so he could check Arn’s grip on the wooden weapon. He stood back and smiled.

‘Strength, endurance, skill and finesse — these are the things that bring a Wolfen home safely from battle. Any time the kingdom gets attacked by invading tree stumps, you’re the one I want next to me.’ He laughed and touched Arn’s sword with his own. ‘But in a real duel, against real foes, and to the death? We’ll see.’

He swished his sword through the air again. This time, Arn did the same, testing its weight, and how it felt in his grip. Following his triumphant splitting of the tree stump, he was feeling confident, certain he had the strength and speed to win. He liked Sorenson, so decided he’d take it easy on him and try not to embarrass the youthful warrior too much on this first session.

Sorenson saluted, touching the blade of his sword to his brow. In turn, Arn adopted a fencer’s pose, as he had seen a hundred times on television — side-on, legs apart, his sword pointed at the Wolfen warrior. His other arm was arched up above his head.

Sorenson laughed. ‘What is this? Do you wish to dance first, young Man-kind?’

With that, the Wolfen lunged at him, and Arn moved out of the way, bringing his sword around to where he expected Sorenson’s blade to be… Instead, he felt it crack across the backs of his knees, his legs buckling under him.

Arn blinked, his eyes focusing on the point of Sorenson’s blade, which was now under his chin. It was strange; the electrifying strength he had felt the evening before was not running through his body anymore. The Wolfen warrior lowered his sword, and held out his hand.

‘Maybe we should start with something a little simpler? Like how to balance while holding a sword.’

Arn grabbed the outstretched hand. ‘I can get this. Let’s do it again.’

Sorenson heaved him to his feet. ‘Good spirit. I like that.’

They set themselves again. This time, Arn took the initiative, feinting to one side, but then shifting his weight and attacking from the other. But still the Wolfen seemed to know what he was planning to do, even before he did it.

Like before, Arn’s sword found only thin air, the flat of his opponent’s blade striking him across the back of his head, and knocking him forward. Arn spun on his heels, gritting his teeth.

Sorenson was trying hard not to laugh. ‘Just as well the fur on your head is thick, Man-kind.’

Arn swore, and ran hard at the Wolfen — swinging and slashing his sword through the air. Sorenson parried each blow, but had to dive sideways to avoid a vicious swipe to his chest. Arn came at him again, and again Sorenson dived and rolled, yelling back over his shoulder as he bounced to his feet, ‘Good speed, and good endurance… but still no finesse!’

Arn manoeuvred the Wolfen warrior up against a wall — or so he thought. When Sorenson had his shoulders pressed against the brickwork, Arn grabbed his sword arm. In turn, Sorenson did the same to him. Now they were locked together. Arn was gasping, while the Wolfen still seemed to be breathing easily.

Sorenson tilted his head. ‘And what now, Man-kind?’

With his sword arm pinned, and not daring to release the Wolfen’s, it seemed to Arn that they had reached a stalemate. But just as he was about to call it a draw, Sorenson bared his teeth — the huge fangs just inches from Arn’s nose.

‘These are the weapons all Wolfen are born with. They are Fenrir’s gift to us. Of all the creatures I have seen on this world, your fangs are perhaps the least impressive… except maybe for the small fluffpeans leaping on the grassy plains.’ His gaze, too, was locked with Arn’s. ‘Be wary of close fighting with any of the creatures of Valkeryn — use your speed, and strength, and endurance, but never let any foe get close to your throat.’

Sorenson pushed him back and raised his sword. ‘Again.’