Free Valkeryn 2: The Dark Lands by Greig Beck Page A

Man-Kind, the Arnoddr, mussst be alive, or you wiiill be the next disgusssting sssack of ssskin lying at my feeeet.’
    Orcalion nodded and backed away, bowing all the way to the door.

    *
    Sorenson raided the dead bodies of his warrior kin. He knew that their sáál would long have left their crushed remains, but still, he said a small prayer over each. The brave battle fallen would have been gathered up by the Valkeryies, and together they would be crossing the bridge to Valhalla. He thanked each of them for their goods, promising to make their armor and blades repay the gift with rivers of Panterran and Lygon blood.
    On a farthest hillside Sorenson turned to look back at the castle – he could still make out fires burning, and a miserable smoke hung over its once majestic walls and turrets. It was still his home and kingdom, but for now, a vile vermin had overrun it. The moon had risen behind him, and its silver light showed massive forms on the plain dragging the remaining bodies of the dead either into the castle or off to the camps of the Lygon to become another feast.
    Sorenson, son of Stromgard and trusted warrior of the once great king Grimvaldr, felt a ball of rage rising up within him. His entire body almost vibrated with the fury and the pain and the burning desire for vengeance until he could hold it inside no longer. He threw his head back and howled, the long notes tumbling down the hill and valleys to crash against the castle walls. His hands crushed into fists and he held the note for many long minutes, letting whoever was inside know that the heart and sáál of the Wolfen was not yet extinguished.
    With a snap of his jaws he bit off the sound and spun away into the darkness. He had many miles to travel if he was to find the Man-Kind or either of the heirs of Valkeryn.
    Sorenson charged into the brush. He had rolled his armor into a pack and tied it over his shoulders. His sword was belted at his waist. The toughened leather garment he wore protected his frame as he smashed through the undergrowth; he couldn’t afford to follow any of the known tracks with so many Lygon in the area.
    He slowed as the forest opened out into a clearing, and he softened his tread. There were many Lygon and Panterran about, searching for survivors or picking over the dead bodies of the fallen Wolfen. The great orange and black brutes had no trouble with carrion, and a rotting corpse was just as palatable as fresh meat to them.
    Grunting and snapping sounds came from up ahead. Sorenson paused and tried to search out the source of the noise before he was seen. Both Wolfen and Lygon had excellent night vision, their eyes managing to pull the most miniscule hint of light from the landscape.
    He edged forward, inches at a time, scarcely breathing as he approached the open ground. The moonlight made the clearing appear as a silver-lit stage, revealing a Lygon crouching over a body. While Sorenson watched, the Lygon pulled and twisted a limb free, lifted it to his jaws and ripped at the flesh, swallowing it in great gulps.
    Sorenson felt pain in his chest. Before he realised it, his warrior spirit had taken over. Where caution was needed, he instead broke into a sprint. Where silence was demanded, he instead roared a challenge, and when he should have discreetly detoured around the brute, Sorenson instead demanded the fight. As he flew forward he drew his sword.
    The Lygon’s head came up in surprise, and then whipped around, the shock clear on his ogreish features. He rose to his feet, throwing the half eaten Wolfen aside and towering over Sorenson, his eyes blazing a luminous green. One huge hand reached down for the enormous axe hanging at his belt. But he fumbled. Perhaps it was the sight of a still living Wolfen running at him, or astonishment that any creature would attack a Lygon warrior in full battle dress. By the time he had freed his weapon, Sorenson was already leaping at him, flying through the air, his sword making an