rested one of her hands on his shoulder.
The queen, he thought.
Just behind her were stood two smaller figures. One, he immediately recognised — it was Eilif, secretly waving with the hand on her hip. Just beside her, staring wide eyed in wonder, was an even younger wolf.
The eyes, thought Arn. I recognise them. The young Wolfen ducked back behind Eilif and Arn turned his attention to the other side of the throne. There stood several warriors, all powerful-looking and fearsome; the largest, easily a head taller than the rest, was the one he knew as Strom — he remembered what Balthazar had told him — the king’s champion, and the one who had saved them in the jormungandr cave.
All three had their hands on the hilt of their swords, which were half as long as Arn was. He had no doubt that if he made one threatening move, they would have cut him down faster than he could blink.
There were murmurs now coming from all sides, but the king just sat and studied him. Even Eilif had her eyes on the king — watching, waiting for something, some sign or gesture from him.
It was becoming unbearable. Arn had no idea of protocol, of what was expected. Magic tricks? He wondered.
‘Greetings, sire,’ he said at last. ‘My name is Arnold Singer.’ He bowed slightly.
The young wolf beside Eilif drew in a breath, and his eyes widened even further, if that was possible. Arn heard him whisper to Eilif, ‘He can talk.’
The king smiled and nodded, as though the simple words and introduction were enough.
If it was a test, then it was an easy one, Arn thought.
‘You’re not as tall as I expected, Man-kind. What is your age?’
‘Ahh, seventeen years… and nine months, your high-nesty… I mean, majesty.’ Arn cleared his throat, his nerves making it and his chest feel tight.
The king sat forward. ‘Son of Man-kind then… and to what age do your people live?’
Arn shrugged. ‘Depends. But it could be anywhere from eighty to a hundred years.’
There were gasps from the assembled crowd, and the king raised a hand to quiet them.
‘That is longer than the oldest Wolfen by many years. But you are not a speck of that oldness — in fact, I believe you are not fully grown at all yet, young Man-kind.’
He motioned over his shoulder to Strom. As the giant Wolfen stepped forward, Arn saw him up close for the first time — and this time without the burning poison of the jormungandr to blur his vision. The king’s champion was even bigger than he remembered. Arn guessed he stood close to seven feet tall, and even without armour his shoulders were as wide as any linebacker Arn had seen on television back home. His face showed scars old and new, and the fur looked like it struggled to regrow over some of the rents in his flesh.
The king pointed to his champion. ‘Will you grow as tall as Strom?’
Arn looked up the Wolfen warrior, and an image of his father leapt to his mind, making him momentarily homesick. He drew in a breath and tried to focus on the question.
‘My father is… was a tall man. And there are some men who are as tall as Strom. But me? No, I won’t grow as tall — I’m pretty average height… for a Man-kind, I guess.’
While the king thought this over, Arn looked around and spotted Balthazar, who had been scribbling notes or sketching while they had been talking. The scientist looked up and caught his eye. He nodded. Arn returned the greeting and felt more confident — perhaps it was the thought of having some friendly faces in the room, or maybe it was due to the slow rise of the moon, its glow flooding in through the high windows.
He resolved to speak further, and turned back to the king. ‘My name is Arnold Singer. I have arrived in your land by accident, and I am a long way… and I believe a long time, from home.’ He waited. No one said a word, so he hurriedly added, ‘I come here as your friend.’ The seconds stretched.
‘I know you are our friend, Arnoddr.’ It was Eilif, but immediately the king raised one large hand in front of her, and she fell silent.
The king spoke again. ‘I have been told of your escape from the Panterran, and of the encounter in the jormungandr hole. It seems you have a knack for finding this world’s worst elements, young Man-kind.’ He turned briefly to Eilif and smiled. ‘But without you, perhaps my daughter would not be here today. For that, you have my thanks.’
The king’s daughter! thought Arn, and gulped.
The king rose to his feet. ‘I am Grimvaldr, son of Grimkell, and bloodline of the mighty Fenrir himself.’ He glanced again at his daughter. ‘And I think we are all prone to being overly quick to speak our minds. But we are also a good judge of noble character, and we see that in you, young Man-kind.’
His expression grew dark. ‘I saw you days ago on the ridge above the killing fields. I thought you were a vision at first, an omen. Your name itself, Arnoddr-Sigarr, means bringer of victory to us.’
The king sat back down, and continued to study his guest. ‘And perhaps you are an omen. I shall grant you shelter among us, but know that soon all of Valkeryn may be called upon to fight.’ He looked hard at Arn. ‘Will you fight with us, Arnoddr-Sigarr?’
Arn wanted to say yes immediately, but the closest he had ever come to fighting was arguing in the canteen line with Edward over the last piece of pie. In Valkeryn, fighting meant something frighteningly real — something bloody, brutal and deadly.
‘I’m not sure how to fight… but I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’ It was the best he could offer.
Eilif stepped up beside the king and whispered to him. He snorted, then nodded. She walked quickly towards Arn, reaching into the folds of her cloak, and removed a small silver dagger, which she offered to him.
‘We can teach you to fight, Arnoddr, but it helps to have a weapon.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Arn said — and it was. Just under a foot in length and of highly polished silver, the familiar snarling wolf with its red eyes was moulded into the pommel. Arn slid it into his empty scabbard and leaned towards her to whisper, ‘Guess I’m not a risk anymore.’
‘You never were to me.’ She smiled and dipped her head, looking up at him from under her ash silver brows. Turning, she bowed to Grimvaldr, and then stepped back up behind him.
Grimvaldr leaned forward in his large throne, the wood creaking under his weight.
‘Good — all help is needed in these dark times. But for one who says he cannot fight, I have been told you seem to have a mighty arm. Perhaps it just needs to be trained, eh, Andrejk?’
Across the hall, a Wolfen stepped forward, grinning. Part of his forehead was shaved, and stitches zippered a long wound. Under his arm he carried his helmet, and he lifted it, and looked at it briefly, before turning it around for the king and Arn to see.
‘There were more dangers in the jormungandr hole than we expected.’ The warrior’s grin broadened.
Arn saw the huge dent in the steel, matching the position of the scar on the warrior’s head. He remembered lashing out in the cave, when he thought he was being attacked. Oh crap, he thought.
‘I saw stars for two days.’ Andrejk didn’t seem angry with him at all.
The other Wolfen laughed, and one next to Andrejk slapped him on the shoulder.
‘There was nothing inside that thick skull to damage.’ He slapped Andrejk’s shoulder again.
The king turned back to Arn. ‘With such an arm, perhaps we should be grateful that you have chosen to help us.’ He stood and waved towards the far end of the room. ‘Come, dine with us. I’m sure you have more questions… as do we. In this kingdom, food and conversation always go hand in hand.’
The doors at the end of the hall were thrown open and the small crowd moved towards it. Arn stood watching for a moment, unsure what he should do, until he felt a tug on his arm. Looking down, he saw the young Wolfen who had been standing just slightly behind Eilif and the queen. His eyes were still very round.
‘You can talk. I thought you were only a story made up by my father and Balthazar.’ He let go of Arn’s forearm and banged a small fist on his chest. ‘I’m Grimson, son of Grimvaldr.’
Arn laughed and sank to one knee, to look him in the eye. He held out his hand.
‘And I am Arnold Singer… ah, son of Johnson Singer. My friends call me Arn.’
The young Wolfen looked at the hand for a second or two, seeming unsure what to do with it. Arn decided to help and reached out to grab Grimson’s hand and shake it.
‘Nice to meet you, Grimson.’ Arn shook the small hand some more. ‘And this is how my people greet each other.’
Grimson smiled and kept pumping Arn’s hand up and down, looking back and forth from it, to Arn, with great amusement. After a moment, he stopped and turned Arn’s hand over in his, to study it.
