‘You aren’t totally hairless, are you? I can feel some hairs there.’ He looked up. ‘Will they get thicker as you get older?’
Arn shrugged. ‘Yes, but not ever as thick as your magnificent fur. In fact, as I get older, I may lose some of the hair on my head.’
Grimson looked at the top of Arn’s head and pulled a face. ‘Yuck.’
Arn laughed again. ‘Thank heavens for hats.’
‘Your eyes are so black. Are they hard to see out of?’
The queen called to her son. Grimson let go of Arn’s hand, and on his jacket Arn noticed the same silver, snarling wolf crest. It was also the same image pressed onto the ring that Eilif had given him. He felt his pocket — it was still there. He’d return it later, when he saw her again.
As Arn walked beside the youth, he pointed to the crest. ‘What does this mean? Is it your… ahh, house badge?’
Grimson looked shocked. ‘Of course — it is the crest of the house of Grimvaldr. The royal crest.’
Arn nodded. You have friends in high places, he remembered Birna telling him.
Grimson stopped and pointed to Arn’s chest. ‘You wear it because you saved Eilif’s life. And for that, you are under Grimvaldr’s protection.’
He motioned Arn closer, who leaned down expecting the young Wolfen to whisper something to him. Instead, Grimson reached up and touched his cheek, then his nose, pinching it.
‘Ouch!’
Grimson ignored him and lifted Arn’s upper lip to peer at his teeth.
‘Loki’s beard! Everything is so small. How do you fit food in there?’
Arn laughed. ‘We cut it into small pieces first.’
Grimson looked shocked at the concept. ‘I can’t wait to see that… Arn. You can be seated next to me. Let’s go; I starve.’ He took Arn’s forearm again, and led him towards the open double doors.
Chapter 15
Not All Wolfen Were Honourable
Orcalion watched the execution with pitiless eyes. The Panterran soldiers who had allowed the prisoners to escape were quickly beheaded, and the bodies would be dragged deep into the forest for the night beasts to tear to shreds. Incompetence was not tolerated among Panterran warriors.
Time was growing short, and the Lygon were becoming harder to control. Their common ancestry bound them to the Panterran — but only loosely. The monstrous brutes were unpredictable, and could easily turn against them if their lust for carnage wasn’t sated.
He looked down at the bloody bag at his feet. The Wolfen scouts they captured had refused to talk — not a single word or scream of pain. He knew he had hurt them; he had taken his time. He narrowed his yellow eyes as if willing it to speak, to reveal the hated creatures’ secrets. It worried him that these Wolfen had such strong hearts, their honour a shield against his torture. The bag held only the trophies he had removed from them. He grinned, baring his needle-like teeth. Others’ agony was satisfying and information was vital for the coming war — torture worked on some, but not all. Other sources were needed. Not all Wolfen were honourable. You just needed to find the right ones, and use the right methods.
The Panterran slung the bag over his shoulder and walked back to the camp. His spies had already found out that the Man-kind had made it to Valkeryn, and King Grimvaldr was calling it an omen for the Wolfen. There was no doubt: the Man-kind arriving, at this of all times, was a sign — but for whom, and of what?
Orcalion cursed the executed Panterran again for allowing the hairless creature to escape before he had a chance to interrogate him personally. He needed the information the creature held — in its mind, or in its guts — either would do. And he meant to get it.
It was time to pay the Wolfen a visit.
Chapter 16
Sterkest Slag
Arn sat at one end of an enormous horseshoe-shaped wooden table. Close to fifty Canites sat around it with Grimvaldr and Freya — as he had learned the queen was named — at its centre. Eilif sat next to her, requested that Arn be seated nearer as well, but the queen quickly overruled her. It seemed that order of nobility determined where one sat. At least I have Grimson close by, Arn thought. The young Wolfen now saw himself as a Man-kind expert, and had appointed himself Arn’s tutor and cultural guide. Perhaps as an heir to the throne, he could choose wherever he wanted to sit, or he just wanted to be further from his mother’s watchful eye.
Arn watched as dozens of attendants brought huge platters of food. He could see now why the table had its shape — the attendants were able to supply food and drink from the front, without having to reach over any shoulders.
Grimson kept up his high-pitched commentary, pointing to different male and female Wolfen and telling Arn who they were and what role they played in the kingdom. As a bonus, Arn also got to hear who had bad breath, who cheated at cards, and who was rumoured to love-chase someone other than his or her life mate.
Arn noticed that the other guests took the opportunity to sneak glances at him, but most looked away quickly when Arn caught their eye. Most, but not all: there was one older Wolfen — an advisor to the king, said Grimson — who went by the name of Vulpernix, who held his gaze. Grimson called him White-eye due to his having one milky, dead eye, and his stare made Arn feel a little creeped out. After a few moments, it was Arn who had to look away.
Arn decided to see if he could find other, friendlier faces along the table. Eilif was seated next to the king and queen, and immediately waved to him when she saw him glance in her direction. She then pointed to the different plates of food on the table, then back at Arn — he guessed she was trying to give him her opinion on which he’d most enjoy… Or was it the ones better avoided? I’ll soon find out, he thought.
At last, the king raised his enormous tankard, and the table fell silent. Even the attendants froze, as if they were automatons suddenly powered off. Grimvaldr looked first down one length of the long table, and then the next. He nodded to each of his guests, and also to Grimson and Arn when he reached them.
Arn noticed Grimson nod in return, and he quickly did the same. The king then lifted his tankard even higher, and spoke to the group in a deep and strong voice that carried to every corner of the large room.
‘In the beginning, there was the light — and from it came Fenrir and the Guardians. May they look over us, and all our charges, until the end of all time.’
As one, the crowd responded, ‘Until the end of all time. Long live the king.’
Cups were raised, emptied, and then slammed down. Only then did the guests reach for the food.
Grimson grabbed several huge chunks of meat and dropped them onto his plate. He then paused to watch Arn, obviously intrigued as to what he would choose.
Arn looked at each of the platters — meat, meat, and more meat. Great slabs of what had to be pork, beef, lamb, and poultry — the selection was enormous. Thankfully, it was all cooked, but though he was far from being a vegetarian, he knew for his own health he needed some sort of fruit or vegetables. Looking down the table, he spied a large bowl that was filled with what he could only describe as lawn clippings.
He nudged Grimson and turned in time to see him stuff a fist-sized chunk of red meat into his mouth. Arn grimaced at the blatant reminder that these things were not people like him at all. He pointed at the grass-filled bowl down the table. ‘What’s that?’
Grimson half stood and looked down the table. He waved an attendant over to request the bowl be brought nearer. Once it was set down, he grabbed a pinch and pushed it into one corner of his already full mouth. He spoke while chewing. ‘Gronus shoots — they’re for digestion, stomach complaints… and also act as an expungent.’
He pushed the bowl towards Arn.
