her in the back, its curved blade finding its way between the plates of her armour. As she whirled and cut her attacker down, she could feel the warm wetness of her blood soaking her fur.
She gritted her teeth. It may be a while now before I see you, my Arnoddr. Hoping that heaven and Valhalla were the same place, she fought on towards her father.
The head of Strom hung in the darkness — like some horrifying totem — at the top of Goranx’s pike. Holding it aloft with one hand, in his other the monstrous Lygon wielded a massive broadsword, which swept through Wolfen and Panterran alike as he cut a path towards the Wolfen king.
Grimvaldr had his back turned, but Sorenson saw the danger and pushed his way forward, roaring a challenge, his fury unleashed when he saw what the great beast carried.
Amidst the bloody carnage, the giant Lygon heard the challenge, and roared in return. He planted the pike in the earth, and charged.
Sorenson was a solid warrior, but considerably outweighed by his opponent. Now fighting at her father’s back, Eilif feared for her warrior friend as she watched him engage the beast, diving and rolling under the first swing of its blade. In return, his own sword slashed through the air and cut deeply into the back of one of the giant’s legs.
Again and again, the Lygon’s massive blade swung at him, but each time Sorenson ducked and weaved, leaving deep cuts in the Lygon’s hide. The orange-and-black fur was becoming matted with blood.
Sorenson circled the Lygon, his sword held firm and unwavering before him. He reached up, pulled off his helmet and threw it to the ground. He pointed to his brother’s head, impaled on the pike.
‘Your head will soon take its place, mindless brute from the dark lands.’
The Lygon smiled, delighted at seeing the face before him. He responded in a voice that was as deep as Hellheim.
‘I know you, brother of Strom, son of Stromgarde. And now know me: I am Goranx, taker of heads, slayer of armies.’ He swung his blade back and forth, the huge weapon making the air swirl around them, and forcing Sorenson to duck one way, then the other. ‘Did you know your brother begged for my forgiveness?’
The effect of these words on Sorenson was only momentary, but it distracted him enough that he didn’t notice the body of a fallen Wolfen behind him. The Lygon swung his sword, and as Sorenson stepped back, he stumbled.
Goranx took his chance: lunging forward, he brought his sword down again, and this time all Sorenson could do was raise his own sword above his head to try to block the blow. But it was as if a tree trunk had fallen on him — his blade shattered into pieces as the other blade smashed through it and embedded itself into his armour, and deep into the flesh beneath.
Goranx seized Sorenson by the throat and lifted him up, squeezing until the Wolfen’s tongue began to protrude. He pulled him close, and hissed into his face, ‘It was always going to end like this.’ Tossing the fallen Wolfen back onto the ground, he placed one giant foot on Sorenson’s chest, then threw back his head and roared.
In one swift move, he dragged his buried sword from the Wolfen’s shoulder and raised the blade high into the air.
Eilif screamed Sorenson’s name, and the sound of her own voice snapped her out of the paralyzing shock of watching the giant destroy her friend. The monstrous Lygon seemed to be savouring his moment of victory, and it gave her precious seconds to act. Sighting a fallen Panterran archer, she dived towards him, snatching the bow and arrow from his dead fingers.
In one smooth motion, she nocked an arrow and fired. Goranx screamed — in shock more than pain — and he tore out the shaft protruding from his side. He snapped the arrow like a twig between his fingers, and raised his sword to battle the circle of Wolfen elite that now closed in around him.
Eilif rose up to her feet, intending to join them — but staggered, dizzy, the leaden weight of fatigue dragging her back to the ground.
I’ll just rest awhile, she thought, the bloody mud cool against her face.
Strong hands dragged her up to her feet. It was Bergborr.
‘You must come with me immediately, princess.’
She shook her head. ‘No, the king…’
‘It is he who commands me. You are to be kept safe until the far Wolfen arrive. It is his order.’ He swept a hand behind her legs and picked her up.
She was weak, confused. Her eyes had begun to play tricks, and it seemed to her that, as Bergborr carried her through the carnage, from time to time a Lygon would loom up in front of them, then, for no apparent reason, pull back and turn away.
She stared past his shoulder at the battlefield. The Wolfen lines were thinning, but were still holding for now.
Bergborr pulled her to him.
‘We are to enter the forest, and use one of the secret trails to make our way to a hidden camp for the wounded. Soon the far Wolfen will come, and then we will see what the Panterran, and their Lygon mercenaries, are truly made of when our numbers match their own.’
She frowned for a moment, looking from Bergborr, to the forest, and then back to the battle. She could make out the figures of her father and mother, fighting side by side, the giant Lygon slashing and hacking his way towards them. She struggled against him, but Bergborr held her tight, and she had no more energy to fight.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘Those vermin will be no match for the Wolfen elite. But we must hurry.’
He carried her past the castle walls, and she heard a shout go up from inside. There was a roar and the sound of steel — swords being pulled from scabbards, and the pounding of thousands of feet.
As she slipped into unconsciousness, she heard the castle doors being thrown open, and a small smile touched her lips.
She whispered softly, ‘Odin, bless the far Wolfen.’
Chapter 48
Valhalla, He Whispered
Grimvaldr swung his sword in an arc, bringing the sharpest blade in the kingdom down on the sword arm of a Lygon. Both the arm and sword fell to the ground. The king’s silver armour was now dark, coated with congealing blood, and in one brief moment, he felt an oasis of calm settle in his chest.
He drew in a breath, and sighted first the line of Panterran flooding down towards them, then turned back towards the castle, where his Wolfen, though vastly depleted, still held their ranks.
Both Karnak and Lon’s forces had now been committed, and were also being ground down. But still he felt strong and confident. There were no more Lygon entering the battle, and once these giant brutes were brought down, the Panterran, no matter their numbers, would have no more stomach for battle.
He saw Freya leap and weave, and smiled with pride — she was graceful and beautiful, even in battle. He loved her with a clarity that seared his heart, and he fought his way towards her. As if his movement had broken some sort of spell, the battle crushed in on him once more.
He dropped down, just before a blade as thick as he was passed a hair’s breadth over his head. Grimvaldr stared up at the creature that towered over him.
As he expected, it was a giant Lygon, looming and snarling. Around its waist, it wore a thick leather belt, from which hung the heads of many creatures — including several Man-kind. He prayed to Fenrir that the Arnoddr- Sigarr was not among them.
Two of his elite leapt forward to grasp each of the giant’s arms, and momentarily hauled him back. But the strength of this creature could not be denied, and the Lygon threw each to the ground, and turned to face them.
Grimvaldr regained his feet as a heavy gong resounded within the castle, and he paused to raise his head to listen.
