Return of the Ancients

Chapter 46 To the Dark Lands

‘I could have fought. I’m big enough.’ Grimson trailed behind Arn as they threaded their way along the winding path. He pulled his sword free and slashed at a hanging vine.

Arn spoke over his shoulder. ‘Stay quiet. There are Panterran about. And I know — I’ve seen you practise — you’re very good. But I am on a quest, and I needed the help of a stout heart. The king said you were the best man — ahh, Wolfen — for the job.’

‘A quest? Yes, I’m the best one for that!’ Grimson sheathed his sword and ran to catch up with Arn. ‘What is the quest?’

‘It’ll be long and arduous… and very dangerous.’ Arn looked down at Grimson. ‘I guess you could say, we’re looking for me.’

Grimson frowned in confusion.

Arn patted him on the shoulder. ‘We’re looking for traces of my people. I don’t believe that they all flew away one day… or that our spirits did. Some would have stayed; some would have hidden from whatever happened. I need to know what that was. I just need to prove I didn’t cause…’ Arn swallowed hard, but that voice in his head wouldn’t be silenced. You just need to prove it wasn’t you who caused the extinction of humanity, that’s all…

Grimson nodded. ‘I wish Eilif could have come.’

The name felt like a dagger wound. ‘Me too, Grim.’

‘My name’s Grimson. Only Eilif is allowed to call me Grim.’ The young Wolfen thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘But you can call me Grim, too, I guess.’ He nodded, satisfied with his decision.

Arn didn’t hear him. He stared distractedly into the distance, where Eilif stood, sword raised, facing down a horde of Lygon that pounded across the ground towards her.

‘Arnoddr, did you hear me?’

Arn shrugged, not wanting to talk anymore. He felt tired and depressed.

‘This quest — where will it take us? Arnoddr, this quest — where will it take us?’ This time, Grimson tugged at his arm.

Arn glanced down at him and blinked, seeming almost surprised to find that he wasn’t alone. He reached instinctively for Vidarr’s map, folded in a pocket sewn into his vest. ‘The dark lands, and you will need to help. You will need to tell me if there is anything you recognise as being dangerous. I might not see it. This is your world now, Grim.’

The young Wolfen sighed, and then nodded. ‘I can do that.’ He thought some more. ‘The dark lands — I wish we had more Wolfen with us. I wish we had Strom with us.’

Strom’s head bobbed above the slavering crowd, his staring eyes towards the distant castle. Goranx stood at the front of the horde and shook his grisly trophy. Both Panterran and Lygon cheered.

Mogahr raised an arm to silence them. She looked at the pike with the Wolfen champion’s head impaled upon it, and her lips parted in a grotesque smile.

‘By the time of theee next sssun’ss risssing, I want a thousssand, thousssand more Wolfen headsss upon my ssspikesss.’ She held out her hand and a Panterran thrust something into it. This, she held up to the horde.

It was a long metal sword, with a jewel-encrusted pommel and leather-wrapped handle. ‘Creeeated by the Panterran blacksssmiths, and harder than the ssstrongessst Wolfen sssteeel. Made from a block of the ancient’s hardest iron’

She turned the sword over and sliced the air with it. ‘The weaponnn of a true championnn.’ She sat forward, her near hairless body cloaked by the darkest hour of the night.

‘The championnn who brings me Grimvaldr’sss head, will have thisss weapon as proof of hisss mighty deeeed.’

The crowd roared, and the sound washed across the hilltop as news of the reward passed along the ranks.

Mogahr lowered the sword and looked to Orcalion.

‘Begin the attttack.’