Goran pulled back each of Arn’s eyelids. He shook his head and spoke softly. ‘Not the same as a Canite eye — the medicine might restore his eyesight, or he might lose what little vision he has left.’
Eilif spoke without hesitation. ‘Do it anyway. Without any treatment, he’ll end up as blind as a ground- worm.’
She held Arn’s head tightly as Goran again lifted his eyelids, and poured a thick, milky liquid into each eye. He let the lids close, and then rubbed the eyes for a second or two. Then he bandaged Arn’s head.
‘There is nothing more we can do. It is in Odin’s hands now.’
Strom motioned for Arn to be taken outside while Goran tended Eilif’s wounds.
‘What of the others? What of brother Isingarr?’
Eilif gave no response other than a small shake of her head.
Strom grunted. ‘It is as we expected. We must leave now; there are Slinkers everywhere. We’ve never seen them in such numbers, and working so closely together — almost like a pack.’
Eilif grabbed his arm. ‘Yes, Slinkers — and others like nothing I have ever seen before. You must get me back to Valkeryn; I have important news for the king.’ She got to her feet. ‘Truly we face an enemy like no other.’
Chapter 11
Behold, Valkeryn
Arn held onto the strange saddle and bounced in time with the jerking gallop of the horse. His back hurt, his thighs were chafed, and his butt cheeks felt like a thousand mules had kicked him. He’d never ridden a horse before, and after this he’d make sure he never did again.
He wanted to reach up and touch his bandaged eyes. They itched terribly, but the pain in the centre of his head had subsided, and he hoped that was a good sign. Blindness was not something he relished, especially in a land where monsters really existed.
The horse swerved suddenly, and he gripped the saddle tighter. Someone else held the reins of his horse — leading him, he expected, back to their homeland. A branch whipped over his head — they were travelling quickly, and he assumed the danger was still close by.
Strange birdcalls, and the hum of insects gave the impression of mid morning. He could feel its warmth on his skin, and was aware of the strange scents of flowering plants, the many Wolfen around him, the horses, and the slight smell of fish that still permeated his jeans pocket.
They slowed a little, and he felt another horse bump up against his. A small hand grabbed hold of his arm, and Eilif asked him gently, ‘How do you travel, Arnoddr-Sigarr? Are you well?’
‘Like I said, just call me Arn. I’m well — but uncomfortable. I don’t usually ride horses. Well, I don’t at all actually. Are we far from your home?’
‘We’ll arrive by high sun. I wish you could behold Valkeryn. The turrets and towers touch the sky, and its mighty granite walls are so polished that they shine golden in the afternoon sunlight. Never have they been breached in all its history. You will like it there.’
‘What happens then? I mean, what happens to me?’ An image of being locked in a cage as some sort of Wolfen carnival freak leapt into Arn’s mind.
‘You are my friend. You will always be safe, Arnoddr… Arn. You may even get to meet the king. He’s nice, but a bit stern. I know he’ll like you.’ There was silence for a moment as if she was thinking. ‘Well, I think he will, anyway.’
Chapter 12
At Last a Worthy Foe
Grimvaldr sat at his long table, with a circle of his most trusted warriors gathered close around him. Spread before him were the recovered remnants of the massacre of his warriors — smashed armour, torn chain mail, a punctured shield. It came as no surprise to him that Ragnar, brave and impetuous by nature, was first to break the silence.
‘We must hunt them down, sire. The Wolfen pack must have been ambushed and overwhelmed. Give me one hundred warriors and I guarantee I’ll bring you back the heads of these Panterran assassins.’
Grimvaldr looked at the faces of the Wolfen surrounding him — all tall, strong, and scarred many times over — the greatest warriors in his kingdom. They had never known defeat in battle, and now hungered for revenge. Blind revenge, he thought.
‘Brave Ragnar, I know you would fight to the very gates of Hellheim for your Wolfen brothers, but sometimes it is better to know your enemy first. You will have your justice — we all will. But we need to know who it is that has declared war on us.’
The king rose slowly to his feet. ‘I want six of our best scouts and hunters to track our enemy back into the dark forests. A group large enough to bring down so many of our best fighters must be either large or extremely formidable. And no matter how stealthy, they must have left a trail that can be followed.’
‘My lord, there is talk that they are wraiths, and…’
‘Silence those words, Bergborr!’ The king pounded the table, his stentorian voice echoing around the stone room. He threw the punctured shield to the floor at the gathered warriors’ feet.
‘Could a wraith do that? No, the attackers were real. And if real, they can bleed… and die.’
Bergborr dropped to one knee. ‘Forgive me.’
Grimvaldr looked down at the warrior. ‘Rise. The unknown is our enemy now. There will be no talk of wraiths, or werenbeasts, or monsters from the darkness. What we seek will be made of flesh and blood and bone. It will be brought down by Wolfen steel, like all those who have made war on us in the past. But first we must know who or what it is we fight.’
The king motioned to the large double doors of the chamber. ‘Let us hear from the sciences. Bring them forth to show us what they have learned from the print we found at the battle site.’
The king sat back down as the massive oak doors swung wide and a broad, low cart was slowly hauled before him. Standing on the cart, a tall figure, draped with a heavy cloth, towered over the Wolfens’ heads as it was dragged past them, towards the king’s throne.
Shuffling up next to it, an elderly Canite in flowing robes bowed deeply. The king motioned for him to rise. He looked up at the cloaked figure.
‘So, Balthazar, it seems you have been busy.’
The other nodded. ‘We thought at first you gave us only a little to work with, but it turned out to be more than we needed, my king. The print was of the Panterran line — its shape is unmistakable. We have all the biological information we need on Slinkers, and know that a Slinker print of a certain size will determine the height and weight of the one who made it. The average size of one of their adult warriors is roughly a little over half as tall as a Wolfen, and their weight about fifty pounds, give or take.’
Turning, Balthazar reached towards the figure, then grabbed the sheet and tugged. It fell away, and the king’s eyes widened. The assembled warriors either cursed or gasped at the strange sight.
The king couldn’t help baring his teeth, and his strong fingers curled around the arms of his throne, splintering the hard wood.
The decloaked figure had been crafted from clay, and stood about nine feet in height. It was similar in shape to a Panterran, but had a heavily muscled torso, leading up to a head that was both terrifying and ferocious.
The king spoke slowly. ‘The head and fangs; how could you know this detail, just from the single print in the mud?’
Balthazar looked from the figure back to the king. ‘Not from the print, sire, but from other clues in the remains of the armour before you.’
Grimvaldr gazed from the punctured shield up to the giant creature’s fangs. He felt a moment of dread, but he knew he could not show it. Any display of fear or indecision on his part would sow seeds of doubt and despair
