Free Return of the Ancients by Greig Beck

Wolfen on him.’ The thing growled, and dug deeper with its claws – this time it seemed, just to inflict pain.
    Arn cried out and tried to pull away. Tears were rolling down his face. ‘Not lying . . . I don’t know what a Wolfen is. I’m not an ape; my name is Arnold Singer, and I’m . . .’
    The creature jerked upright. Arn suddenly felt like a door had been opened, and he was suddenly able to see back into the dark corridors of the creature’s mind.
    Arn flexed his thoughts, and saw the creature wince. The doorway to its mind had been opened a crack – he now kicked it wide. He saw an army of the small yellow-eyed creatures who had captured him; behind them were other terrifying beasts, similar in shape to the creatures, but many times larger. There were thousands of them – brutish and powerful, and thirsty for blood and war.
    Shock was written momentarily on his interrogator’s furred features, and Arn felt its claws withdraw, sliding out from beneath his skin. The slitted eyes were now wide, but not with hatred. Arn sensed something far more primal in them – perhaps even fear.
    ‘Impossible. Not Sigarr. Not the Arnoddr-Sigarr.’
    Arn felt blood trickle down the side of his face, and watched numbly as the other hooded creatures joined the old sorcerer. All were now highly animated by the mention of this name. Strangely, Arn could still understand them all. Whatever the vile thing had done to him, its effects seemed permanent.
    One of the hooded creatures pointed at Arn. ‘Make the link again – ask it when the war will come. If there be victory, will it be ours? If it truly is the Arnoddr, it will know.’
    Arn closed his eyes. So they didn’t know that somehow the link remained. A complex mind, the thing had said of him . Perhaps more complex than you realise, Arn thought.
    He listened. They called themselves Panterran. And they had a hatred and distrust for almost everything – but none more so than for a race they called the Wolfen.
    The old Panterran looked at Arn, its goblin-like features twisted into slyness.
    ‘No more link; it hurts with this one. Not like Panterran or Wolfen mind. I will open the ape and read our future from its entrails.’ It gave a small whining chuckle. ‘We will save the extra meat for our giant friends.’
    Arn gulped, and gripped the pocketknife in his fist, praying the pain from the last link had caused the old Panterran to overlook it.
    Another Panterran burst in among the group, and after looking scornfully at Arn for a second while it caught its breath, spoke a single word: ‘Wolfen.’
    The old Panterran hissed. At its orders, the small, deformed-looking creatures began grabbing bows and arrows, and curved swords like scimitars.
    ‘Take the Lygon, but be sure to bring me one of the Wolfen alive – all others are to be killed. Information and secrecy are our weapons now.’ The old Panterran turned briefly to Arn and looked him up and down, its mouth twisting in disgust. It picked up some of Arn’s shredded clothing and threw it across his face.
    ‘Your hairless form is repulsive . . . but your face truly sickens me.’
    You should talk, you ugly freak! Arn screamed the retort in his mind, but kept still and silent as he heard the old creature rush to join the others.
    He fiddled with the knife in his hand, his sweaty palm making it difficult, but he needed to hurry. He didn’t think digging around in his entrails sounded like something he wanted to hang around for. He tested his bonds. Gotta get out of here. Now!

Chapter 9
     

Fenrir Watches Us All
     
     
    The four Wolfen, three adults and one youth, moved silently through the deeper parts of the forest, pausing from time to time to lift their heads in the air, or get down close to the ground to examine some minor disturbance to the soil or grass.
    Isingarr, their senior warrior, held up one hand and remained stock-still. His ears were erect and pointing forward. The tip of one of them was missing,