The gates of the castle were thrown open, and time stood still as thousands of creatures collectively held their breath. The king raised his sword high, preparing to command the second charge, but instead his arm fell by his side.
A boiling multitude of bristling fur and curved fangs exploded through the gates. It was another Lygon army; somehow they had made their way into the castle grounds, and now had both the higher ground, and a position at the flank of the Wolfen.
The horde smashed into the rear Wolfen, and the Lygon front line pressed forward with renewed ferocity. Floating over the swarming mass of cursing, fighting and dying creatures, Grimvaldr thought he could hear the merciless cackle of the Panterran queen. Perhaps she had been brought forward so she could watch the final moments of the Wolfen as they were hacked and slashed and crushed from all sides.
In this darkest moment of distraction, the king sensed that menacing presence behind him once again. He tried to turn, but this time it as too late. The massive sword, thrust with the brute strength of the giant Lygon, pushed through the hardened Wolfen steel armour on his back, and burst from his chest. He felt his feet lifting off the ground as he was held aloft as a bloody, still-breathing trophy.
His own sword fell from his hand, and he reached to grasp the blade protruding from his chest. Grimvaldr wished he could speak, so he could yell one last order to his Wolfen.
Be brave — fight on! he would roar to them. Instead, as his vision began to cloud, he could only watch as Freya, his beautiful queen, screamed his name and rushed towards him, only to be cut down by a dozen Panterran.
Grimvaldr crushed his eyes shut. No more orders would come from him now, no saviours of the Wolfen race would come this day.
As he was lifted higher above the heads of the last few battling Wolfen, he saw the sun begin to rise at the far edge of the horizon — rising in the far lands, where he hoped his son was making his way now.
Grimvaldr felt the rays on his face, and in that fresh red warmth, he saw golden doors opening.
Valhalla, he whispered.
Chapter 49
The Fall of the Wolfen
Arn paused and grabbed Grimson by the shoulder. The sun was coming up, and a slight breeze blew up from behind them, carrying with it a sound he could just make out. It was like a gong or bell being struck over and over.
Grimson lifted his head to sniff the air. ‘My father — I can’t… I can’t sense him anymore.’ He looked up at Arn. ‘Can we go back, Arnoddr?’
Arn shook his head. ‘Not this day.’ He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He hoped somehow that Eilif had survived, that the far Wolfen had arrived in time, and that Grimvaldr had triumphed. But even though the sounds of the gong probably signalled the end of the battle, deep down he knew the day did not belong to the Wolfen.
He watched the sun rise up over the horizon. He might have travelled a million years, and might have arrived just in time to witness the last night of the Wolfen. It isn’t fair, he thought.
He patted Grimson on the shoulder and glanced at him, and for a moment the youngster looked like a normal boy. He blinked and the mirage dissolved. Grimson looked up and smiled, and Arn turned away. ‘C’mon, we have a lot of ground to cover.’
The two small figures pushed their way through the brush. One was human, possibly the last of his kind. And for all Arn knew, the young Wolfen beside him was possibly the last of his kind, too.
About the Author
Greig Beck grew up across the road from Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. His early days were spent surfing, sunbaking and reading science fiction on the sand. He then went on to study computer science, immerse himself in the financial software industry and later received an MBA. Greig is the director of a software company but still finds time to write and surf. He lives in Vaucluse, Sydney with his wife, son and an enormous black German shepherd.
