Return of the Ancients

Chapter 48 Valhalla, He Whispered

Grimvaldr swung his sword in an arc, bringing the sharpest blade in the kingdom down on the sword arm of a Lygon. Both the arm and sword fell to the ground. The king’s silver armour was now dark, coated with congealing blood, and in one brief moment, he felt an oasis of calm settle in his chest.

He drew in a breath, and sighted first the line of Panterran flooding down towards them, then turned back towards the castle, where his Wolfen, though vastly depleted, still held their ranks.

Both Karnak and Lon’s forces had now been committed, and were also being ground down. But still he felt strong and confident. There were no more Lygon entering the battle, and once these giant brutes were brought down, the Panterran, no matter their numbers, would have no more stomach for battle.

He saw Freya leap and weave, and smiled with pride — she was graceful and beautiful, even in battle. He loved her with a clarity that seared his heart, and he fought his way towards her. As if his movement had broken some sort of spell, the battle crushed in on him once more.

He dropped down, just before a blade as thick as he was passed a hair’s breadth over his head. Grimvaldr stared up at the creature that towered over him.

As he expected, it was a giant Lygon, looming and snarling. Around its waist, it wore a thick leather belt, from which hung the heads of many creatures — including several Man-kind. He prayed to Fenrir that the Arnoddr-Sigarr was not among them.

Two of his elite leapt forward to grasp each of the giant’s arms, and momentarily hauled him back. But the strength of this creature could not be denied, and the Lygon threw each to the ground, and turned to face them.

Grimvaldr regained his feet as a heavy gong resounded within the castle, and he paused to raise his head to listen.

The gates of the castle were thrown open, and time stood still as thousands of creatures collectively held their breath. The king raised his sword high, preparing to command the second charge, but instead his arm fell by his side.

A boiling multitude of bristling fur and curved fangs exploded through the gates. It was another Lygon army; somehow they had made their way into the castle grounds, and now had both the higher ground, and a position at the flank of the Wolfen.

The horde smashed into the rear Wolfen, and the Lygon front line pressed forward with renewed ferocity. Floating over the swarming mass of cursing, fighting and dying creatures, Grimvaldr thought he could hear the merciless cackle of the Panterran queen. Perhaps she had been brought forward so she could watch the final moments of the Wolfen as they were hacked and slashed and crushed from all sides.

In this darkest moment of distraction, the king sensed that menacing presence behind him once again. He tried to turn, but this time it as too late. The massive sword, thrust with the brute strength of the giant Lygon, pushed through the hardened Wolfen steel armour on his back, and burst from his chest. He felt his feet lifting off the ground as he was held aloft as a bloody, still-breathing trophy.

His own sword fell from his hand, and he reached to grasp the blade protruding from his chest. Grimvaldr wished he could speak, so he could yell one last order to his Wolfen.

Be brave — fight on! he would roar to them. Instead, as his vision began to cloud, he could only watch as Freya, his beautiful queen, screamed his name and rushed towards him, only to be cut down by a dozen Panterran.

Grimvaldr crushed his eyes shut. No more orders would come from him now, no saviours of the Wolfen race would come this day.

As he was lifted higher above the heads of the last few battling Wolfen, he saw the sun begin to rise at the far edge of the horizon — rising in the far lands, where he hoped his son was making his way now.

Grimvaldr felt the rays on his face, and in that fresh red warmth, he saw golden doors opening.

Valhalla, he whispered.