Return of the Ancients

Chapter 33 Know Who You Face This Day

Strom stood in the centre of the path, between two large boulders. This made it hard for his adversaries to creep up on his flanks, but still didn’t mean he couldn’t be overwhelmed by a frontal attack. He doubted the Panterran had the stomach for it.

He had torn his tunic free, and used the leather to wrap his hands; the blistering was painless due to the feninlang root balm, but was starting to weep. He would need a firm grip on his sword.

He stood staring into the dark, legs spread, holding his blade ready as the approaching horde bore down on him.

The first Panterran runners that broke through the forest onto the path were quickly cut down, and their squeals of surprise alerted the rest to be cautious. In a few more seconds, more of the small warriors had appeared, but stayed back, just out of reach of the large Wolfen’s sword.

Strom held his position — he didn’t really care if they fought him; he just needed to slow them down.

The snarls and hisses of the tangle of Panterran built quickly. Strom bared his teeth.

‘Craven worms of the night, your cowardice is why you will never truly defeat the sáál of the Wolfen.’

The snarling fury of the Panterran quietened, and the boiling mass of flat-faced creatures parted to allow Orcalion to glide through.

‘Ah, of course… mighty Strom. We thank you.’

Strom frowned in confusion, and Orcalion nodded and continued.

‘You broke the agreement, champion of the Wolfen — made in the presence of your king: the Man-kind for the princeling — that was our deal. Now who is the most deceptive?’

Strom kept both hands on his sword, and snorted in contempt as more and more Panterran crowded in around him. ‘You would never have released our prince.’

Orcalion grinned. ‘Now we shall never know. But history will record that the Wolfen provoked this war… and for that, we thank you.’

‘Wolfen don’t fear war, or death, you vile little creature. We will never fall to your steel and claw, or to your deceptions.’

‘You think not, berserker? You will fall, and fall this night, to us…’ He leaked a hissing chuckle. ‘… Or to our large and hungry brothers.’

So saying, he stepped to one side to allow three enormous Lygon to thunder onto the path. They held huge stone mallets in their taloned hands, and dagger-like fangs curved back from faces as ugly and fearsome as monsters from Hellheim itself.

Strom, snarling, backed up a step. Up close, the Lygon were more terrible than the clay model Balthazar had made at the castle. Their orange and black-striped fur rippled over massive columns of muscle. Like giant striped ogres, they roared and raised their weapons, bringing them down onto the ground with so much force, Strom could feel the impact through the soles of his feet.

Strom sucked in a huge breath, then let loose a roar that made the Panterran shrink back behind the Lygon. He pointed his sword at the brutes before him.

‘Know who you face this day. I am Strom, son of Stromgarde, descendant of the very first guardians! If I die this day, so will many of you.’

‘Kill him!’ Orcalion screeched at the three giant creatures, then slunk quickly out of sight behind them.

The Lygon each were twice Strom’s weight, but they hesitated in the face of his ferocity. They were used to warriors fleeing from them in fear, and never had they faced a being who would stand up to three of them.

In the end, it was Strom who charged.

When they came together, there was an explosion of muscle and steel that shook the trees around them. A severed Lygon head flew through the air as the Wolfen’s broadsword flashed in an arc. The Panterran shrunk back further into the brush as blood sprayed in all directions.

As Strom had expected, they were enormously strong, but slow.

Another of the Lygon suffered a deep gash to its arm, causing it to roar its pain to the sky, and pull back temporarily from the fight. Orcalion screamed until his eyes bulged and spittle flew from his black lips. The Panterran pulled his own curved sword, and prodded the giant beast in the back.

The huge Lygon wouldn’t budge. The remaining beast swung its stone mallet, striking the earth thunderously, splintering trees — but never once touching the Wolfen. For the first time, fear gripped the spine of the Panterran.

Orcalion dropped his sword, and snatched a bow from one of his cowering warriors. He nocked an arrow and fired it into the Wolfen’s leg. Strom grunted and sunk to one knee.

With the feninlang stimulant wearing off from his already battered body, Strom knew his fight was done. He lowered his sword and raised his face to the sky, smiling, knowing he had given his brother time to get his charges well away.

He opened his arms wide, and yelled with all the strength he could muster, ‘For Valkeryn!’

Emboldened at the sight of their stricken enemy, the two Lygon came at him with their weapons raised. With his last vestige of strength, Strom lifted his blade and plunged it deep into the gut of one of the charging giants, its own weight ensuring that it impaled itself to the hilt.

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.’