couldn’t see her, he knew she was looking at him.
At last she spoke. ‘With that small nose, how do you smell?’
‘Excellent — but I’ll smell even better after my bath.’ He grinned, but he guessed she must have missed his joke. He felt her hand on his head, stroking his hair.
‘You have beautiful fur… What you have of it.’
Morag made a sound like a giggle, and Eilif growled back at her.
‘Err, thank you.’ Arn blushed. She touched one of his ears.
‘Amazing that you can hear at all with these little half circles… And you can’t turn them at all? You are a thing of wonders, Arnoddr.’ She stroked his hair one last time. ‘Enjoy your bath, Man-kind. The tailor has made you some fine clothing — you’ve got to look your best when you are presented to the king.’
‘The king? When?’
Arn heard Eilif’s footsteps fading down the corridor. She called back to him.
‘Soon… This evening. Don’t worry, brave warrior, I’ll be there to protect you.’ She laughed, but it was faint — she must have disappeared around a bend in the corridor.
The bath was a gigantic wooden tub filled with warm water that was soapy, scented with something like cloves, and felt magnificent. He had soaked for what seemed like ages, letting the water ease the knots in his overworked muscles and spine. Even his multitude of cuts and abrasions had ceased to sting the longer he had relaxed.
On Birna and Morag’s insistence, he had finally climbed out, and he had needed to be just as insistent himself to keep his two attendants — or nurses, as he was starting to think of them — from drying him off and dressing him.
He took the rough towel that was offered and eventually managed to shoo them both away, their good humour reminding him of home and his family.
Arn heard the heavy door close behind them, and sat down, alone in his own personal darkness. In the silence of the bathing room, it occurred to him that everything he had known was probably dust a million times over; his family, his friends, Becky Matthews, even that ass Steve Barkin were now nothing but memories living in his head. It was such a miserable thought that, for the first time in years, he began to cry.
He had no idea how long he sat there, but when there came a knock on the bathing room door, he realised he was cold and dry. He turned in the direction of the doorway, expecting it to be one of his attendants, but instead a deeper, male voice addressed him.
‘I am the court physician,’ said the voice, Arn heard the door open, and felt a slight breeze as someone entered. ‘I’ve come to look at your eyes.’
Large hands gripped his head and the bandages were lifted away. Arn blinked, but immediately scrunched his eyes shut again — even in the muted candlelight, the glare was agony for him.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away tears of pain. Then he opened them again. Images swam slowly into focus, and though he should have expected it, he was startled to see an enormous wolf’s face staring hard into one of his eyes, then the other.
The physician used a glass lens to peer into each of Arn’s pupils. He grunted his approval.
‘Good. No permanent damage.’ He held up one clawed finger and moved it back and forth in front of Arn’s nose, expecting him to follow it. Arn found it hard not to look at the large, furred face, but did his best.
‘You are very lucky, young Man-kind. Not many have their sight return after having their eyes bathed by the venom of the jormungandr. It is a terrible creature.’
Arn shuddered in spite of himself. ‘Yes, it was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. Are there many creatures like that here?’
‘Not so many in our lands. But in the dark lands… there are even worse things.’
‘Worse things?’
The old physician patted Arn’s shoulder and turned away.
‘Wait…’
The physician stopped, half turned.
‘How…’ Arn wasn’t sure how to frame his question. ‘How did you… come to be? The Wolfen — err, Canites, I mean.’
The physician considered Arn thoughtfully, as if trying to determine the nature of the question — or, as Arn hoped, the best place to begin. Clearing his throat, he grasped the edges of his robe, like a lawyer in a courtroom.
‘We have always been, young Man-kind. Our pack, the Canites, have been here since the dawn of all things. The almighty Fenrir led us from the forests and taught us how to work together, how to live together, how to fight for our land and our race. The king is his descendant — only he knows more of our history, as it is passed down along his noble line.’
‘Fenrir. I’ve heard that name a lot. Who was he — your leader?’
‘Fenrir, may his name be blessed, is all things — our father, our spiritual leader, our teacher and our warlord.’
Arn nodded. ‘Did he teach you to talk? I mean, how did you learn to speak? And the Panterran — did he lead them from the forests as well? Where did they spring from?’
The physician’s lips curled slightly at the mention of that hated name. ‘The Panterran crawled out of the dark. They are our opposites. They would destroy us and Valkeryn and everything it stands for if they could. If not for our Wolfen warriors, they would have overrun us a thousand years ago.
The more Arn learned, the more questions came to his mind. ‘You are Canites. And the Wolfen, they’re Canites too? Your warriors, right?’
‘Yes. A Canite trains for many years to become a Wolfen warrior. They are the elite guard of Valkeryn, and join the king’s army. The very best are picked to serve as the king’s personal bodyguard, or perhaps even become his champion, like Strom, son of Stromgarde.’
‘I’ve met Strom.’ Arn frowned. ‘Are there any other… types of, ah, races, other than Canites and Panterran in this world?’
The old physician folded his arms. ‘Not in these lands, but there are stories of other races beyond the dark borders.’ He sat down next to Arn and stared at the ceiling, thinking over his earlier question. ‘The great libraries talk of the time of the great fire, and how the many tribes and races were born within it. But how did we learn to speak? We have always spoken.’ He turned to Arn with a half smile. ‘Perhaps only now can we be heard, Man- kind.’
‘Man-kind — and what happened to Man-kind?’
‘There are a hundred different legends about them… about you. There are an unenlightened few who refuse to believe you ever existed, that perhaps you are nothing but a myth.’ The old Canite snorted softly. ‘So much for that story. But the most pervasive theory is that the Old Ones left this world long ago, and left it in our care.’
‘They left? But how… how did they leave?’
The physician shrugged. ‘Just stories and legends. In some tales, it is said they all flew away on ships of the sky. Others talk of them simply ascending to Asgaard as spirits. Still more tell that their spirits were released in the great fire. But in all, it is promised that there would be a return of the ancients one day, when we need them most. As I said, it’s all myth and legend, and though our explorers have found artefacts in certain deep caves, we cannot truly confirm whether these belonged to Man-kind, or some other race.’
‘I might be able to help. Could you take me to these caves?’
‘They are in the dark lands or lost. There may be maps, but the archives are so vast that you’d need another map just to find them…’ Balthazaar stopped and his brows knitted together. ‘… Unless…’
‘What? Unless what?’
‘Unless old Vidarr is still the archivist. He’s probably the oldest Canite in all of Valkeryn. No one has seen him for years, but…’ He slapped his thigh. ‘But enough of your questions. I am Balthazar, physician and chief scientist in King Grimvaldr’s court.’ He looked at Arn steadily with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I have seen many strange things in my lifetime, but I never expected to see… you. Now it’s my turn to ask some questions, Arnoddr-Sigarr. Where exactly did you spring from, and are you alone?’
Arn held his gaze for a few moments, trying to decide what to tell him. How to tell him? The castle, the
