would be fun, he thought, and chuckled again.
Grimson turned, expecting to see his ever-present attendants, but found himself alone.
He called to one, and then another. There was no reply.
Grimson stood quietly in among the dark foliage. From where he stood, the castle towers now seemed a long way distant. It was strange — too silent. He concentrated; there was noise — almost imperceptible.
Breathing.
He couldn’t help the tiny whimper that stole from the back of his throat; the brace of flygen-gnager had been startled into breaking cover when he wasn’t even close to them — they’d been startled by something… but not him. In the moment it took him to pull his small dagger from its scabbard, a strong hand wrapped around his muzzle and bound it with a leather strap.
The last thing he saw before a bag was pulled over his head was that the hand belonged to a Wolfen.
The runner burst into the throne room and went down on one knee to deliver his message, his voice echoing in the vast space.
‘A Panterran emissary, my lord… He comes alone, and under the flag of peace.’
‘Peace,’ snorted Grimvaldr. He rose to his feet. ‘Assemble my generals, and have the Panterran wait at the gates until we are ready.’
The Wolfen runner nodded and hurried away. Grimvaldr walked slowly to the window to look out over the castle grounds, and beyond to the green lands of the kingdom. Most Wolfen had heightened senses — they could feel when the ground was going to shake, even before it did. Some could even sense an intention before it was acted upon. But Grimvaldr was of the royal bloodline, descended from Fenrir himself; as he gazed out the window, he felt a dark sense of foreboding deep in his chest, as if a great calamity or storm hung over Valkeryn and all his people… and he could do nothing to avert it.
He shook his head to clear away the disturbing thoughts, and sat down heavily in his chair just as his war party entered. As always, it was Strom first, in full armour, his brother Sorenson, followed by Karnak, Ragnar, and all his other generals, advisors and trusted senior warriors. Grimvaldr didn’t believe for a minute that the vile creature would be on a mission of peace.
Any news of Panterran travelled swiftly, and already the group knew of the approaching emissary, and that it came from their most hated of foes. On entering, the Wolfen simply nodded to Grimvaldr and filed to his left and right as he sat forward in the large oak chair in the centre of the room.
The king turned to Sorenson first. ‘Show our emissary and bearer of good news into the hall.’ Grimvaldr smiled and added, ‘And try not to bite his head off, young Sorenson.’
‘The taste would sicken me, sire.’ Sorenson bowed and walked quickly over to the double doors, pushing them open and allowing the smaller, hooded creature to enter.
The Panterran glided fluidly into the room, immediately reminding the king why they were called Slinkers. It halted after a few paces to look at each of the assembled Wolfen. There was no bow or nod — just a look of contempt on the flattened features.
‘Greetings, ruler of the Canites. Greetings from Queen Mogahr, ruler of the Panterran — may her name be blessed above all others.’
There was a stirring in the Wolfen ranks as they listened to the praising of another ruler in the hall of the great Wolfen kings. Grimvaldr simply nodded and raised his hand for order.
‘You travel here under a white flag of peace, and we will honour it. But you are not our guest, not our friend, and your race has been making war on us since before the dawn of remembered time. State your business quickly and go on your way.’
The small flat-faced creature grinned, his small tongue licking black lips.
‘As you say… Canite king. I am Orcalion, and I have been tasked with bringing a message of true peace, lasting peace. If you would only accept it.’ He paused and again let his amused gaze slide over the Wolfen generals and advisors. ‘There is much danger in the forests and the outlands, and this danger comes even here to Valkeryn. You know the Lygon have entered the kingdom?’
Strom took a half step forward. ‘Brought by you, vile eater of vermin.’
Orcalion grinned once more. ‘Ah, of course, the mighty Strom — the king’s champion and strong right arm. It is true we sought to meet with the Lygon, only to find out their intent. After all, this is our land also. But they will not listen to reason. They say they come to make war on you, Canite king.’
Grimvaldr waved his hand in the air. ‘We have met greater foes before, and have stood. We will meet any challenge to Valkeryn.’
‘Of course you have. But a thousand Lygon, each half as tall again as your own Strom… This will be an interesting war for a king to fight in his olding years.’
Grimvaldr knew that the Panterran was trying to prickle him with his words. ‘Is there anything else? Anything we do not already know?’
‘Mighty Grimvaldr, honourable Grimvaldr. It is true our races have been at war for nearly all time, but even we cannot condone the atrocities that will be inflicted on you by the Lygon — the atrocities that are being inflicted at this very moment.’
Orcalion reached under his robe and pulled forth a leather satchel. Several of the Wolfen moved quickly to stand in front of the king, forming a shield, and Sorenson put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Orcalion unwound the leather thong around the top, and pulled free a grisly necklace, tossing it onto the floor. It was made up of many Wolfen ears threaded together, one with a familiar notch missing from the top.
Ragnar bent and picked them up, rubbing the notched ear with his fingers.
‘Isingarr, bravest of warriors…’ He turned his gaze to the Panterran, baring his teeth as a growl rumbled deep in his chest.
Orcalion nodded and spoke quickly, the grin still not leaving his lips, ‘The Lygon are no respecters of the dead…’
He reached into the sack once more and pulled forth a tattered and bloody scrap of cloth. It bore the image of a silver, snarling wolf with red eyes — the house of Grimvaldr — the patch of material having been torn from a small tunic. The colour, the crest, Grimvaldr recognised it in an instant.
Orcalion tossed it to the floor. ‘… Or age.’
The king burst from his chair, gripping the Panterran around the throat and lifting him from the ground with one hand. Even then, the yellow eyes stared back defiantly, a suggestion of wheezing laughter in the strangled voice:
‘Brave king, righteous king, so noble, so large and powerful. You could crush me like a morning bug… but you will not. Your laws of safe passage deny it… and a Wolfen never strikes at an… unarmed foe. The war is coming, old king. It will be your last. Maybe I can save your young Wolfen son… maybe I cannot. Or perhaps the key to saving him rests with you this very moment… if you will but listen.’
Grimvaldr threw back his head and roared, and drew the creature so close, his breath moistened the fur on the Panterran’s flattened face.
Orcalion hissed, ‘You have something that Queen Mogahr wants, something that you can… trade to buy our help.’ His grin finally twisted into a grimace of pain as the grip on his throat intensified. ‘The Man-kind — give him to us, and she will intercede… personally… with the Lygon.’
Grimvaldr threw the Panterran from him, and roared his frustration to the high ceiling. Orcalion got to his feet and laughed softly. Around him, the other Wolfen had curled their hands into fists and snarled in their barely contained fury. Pulling forth a scrap of white cloth and holding it above his head, the Panterran edged towards the door, intoning the words for safe passage as he went. In the doorway he stopped. ‘You must give your answer by three eves hence. After that, the son of Grimvaldr may either be out of the kingdom…’ He sidled round the doorframe. ‘… Or out of his skin.’
With that he was gone.
Grimvaldr sat down slowly, his shoulders slumped, and stared off into the distance. Strom was by his side in an instant.
‘Give me a dozen Wolfen elite and some trackers — I’ll bring you Grimson, and the head of that creature, and anyone else who was involved in his capture.’
The other Wolfen were yelling their approval, and willingness to be in the first group to charge out after the
