II - THE HARPS FALL SILENT

The music of flutes, harps, lyres, lutes and drums carried for miles around; the citadel walls could not contain the festive air.

In the main courtyard, as many tables as could fit had been set up beneath a makeshift awning to shelter from the snowfall.

They ensured that all folk were gathered and served equally, both within and without the castle, during the victory banquet.

That day was history at its finest. It would be remembered forever as the day the celebrations converged into one: Yule, the birth of the Empire of Móntria, and the inauguration of the temple in honour of Tyr, god of war.

Behind the castle, beyond the temple, having passed through the hedgerows and the artificial lake, deep within the intricate labyrinth of trees and shell-paved paths, Narg strolled thoughtfully.

He carried the reins of his black steed in his right hand whilst enjoying the melody that reached him, interrupted now and then by the trumpets announcing the arrival of another guest. The festivities were about to begin, and Narg took advantage of the flurry of preparations to slip away and be alone with his thoughts.

The melodies mingled with the birdsong overhead, as though the birds had composed a special verse in his honour. 'They too are celebrating,' he thought.

With every step he kicked the soft snow with the toe of his boot; it stretched out before him like a carpet welcoming him. He smiled as the sleet tickled his visage. The cold air filled his lungs, and with every breath he felt lighter.

It had been a long time since he had enjoyed being alone and at peace. And it was just what he needed to be able to meditate. He had shared every decision made in recent years with his retinue, but this one, in particular, was for him to decide alone. He sensed it.

Concealed within his raiment was a missive penned by his own hand. A slender note, with words chosen by him and corrected by Owin Frylson, his sorcerer and royal physician. Yet it was left to him to analyse the message, alone, and determine whether to enter the game or let it pass.

He had done it; the Raven’s Standard flew above every tower of the eight castles of Móntria. But what did it mean to him—to be king of an empire? And suddenly he stopped. A lurch; a seasoned trapeze artist without a net—his heart had leapt into the void.

He cast his gaze backward, unto his past, unto his very back.

The bushes bore so much snow upon them, layer upon layer, that they concealed their freshness, their green, their life, and he felt himself to be one of them.

He thought of all he had gone through to achieve this, and was frightened by the very fact that he had succeeded.

The sinews of his legs tensed. Suddenly he felt his fingers freeze; blue and numb, they clutched Tower’s leather strap.

Steam rose from his mouth until it vanished.

Cold, in body and soul. Cold from bearing the weight of eight kingdoms in his slender hands—and he looked at them.

How much blood had bathed them, and yet they were icy, dead, as every soul he had taken.

In the name of peace, war. In pursuit of well-being, death. And his conscience planted its flag.

Heir of Odín’s raven, he thought, and shook his head to drive the thoughts screaming 'guilty' out through his ears.

Why was Ubberia not like Korkolat or Lepontia or Utmia?

Why did Halfdan force him to go to war? Why besiege him in that way?

Was the power of the kingdoms truly so dear that he could not sign with ink that which blood could not?

More than five years of endless attempts, of blind negotiations, of mediocre excuses, of a king who hated to rule.

It was plain to see; the whispers seeping through the foundations of his kingdom knew it.

But, above all, and for some reason, Halfdan had hated Narg more than the thorns of his own throne.

Thirty-nine years, and every single one of them weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

How easy it would have been to assail Ubberia five or ten years earlier.

'Force only begets force, and what we seek to avoid often leads us to the very fate we sought to evade,' he concluded. And his heart gave another lurch; calling out to him, it cried within his chest that it had somewhat to tell him. Might it be that hunger and death, the inequality he had striven so hard to eradicate, would be Móntria’s doom should he fail, or was there some other matter he was failing to behold?

From right to left, his eyes dull, present in the moment yet absent, borne away by thought, he analysed the future, reading the paths, even as he himself advanced at a brisk pace, without realising it, with Tower at his side, almost at a trot.

He had no direction; his body moved to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Kerkion, Korkolat, Cartos, Lepontia passed through his mind; he sought the omen that his fate might lead him into the depths of defeat.

His body moved forward, as if drawn to a place, or perhaps it was Tower who was guiding him.

He did not care; he simply carried on, swiftly, and the music that reached him—the revelry and the hubbub—began to vex him.

The birds were no longer singing; it was the shortest day of the year, Yule, and by instinct they sought shelter from the darkness that was beginning to descend.

'What if the difficulty lay not in Móntria?

' he pondered. 'What if it were the kingdoms of Tloston?

What if it were Wolest who would dig his own grave?

' Then he recollected those words. Not that he had forgotten them—they had lulled him for the six nights since the fall of Ubberia—but they made themselves felt just as strongly as on that day: 'I possess Perkolon’s manuscript, and with it I shall cleanse thy fabricated blood.

' And the word Perkolon lodged itself there, corroding his soul.

Perkolon —what did it mean? And merely to think it stole the air from his lungs, as though he had run for miles.

He squeezed his eyelids shut and returned to Alfredo’s Garden.

His boots sank deep into the snow. He had stopped before the mausoleum of the legend that eclipsed his own achievements. That statue, standing, with its left hand stretched forward, resting upon the hilt of its sword hidden behind it, ready to be drawn.

Alfredo’s monolith seemed to display to the world the replica of a sword that did not do justice to the legend.

The carved hilt, two ravens perched on each quillon, and two wolves, front and back, encircling the guard and gazing at the moon, as if singing to it.

That sword, Alforast, and its edge, they had resolved to conceal, for no smith could capture the blackness inherent to the metal wrought in Asgard.

It was a legend, even as Alfredo himself, or the tales told of him and Windar, and Renger or Lerg, and of every Raven King who sat upon the throne.

Lost in the final battle or taken by Odín when he came down to claim Alfredo’s warrior soul.

Legend, and Narg knew not which to choose, for they all portrayed him as so invincible and merciful, so bloodthirsty and violent, so just that merely hearing his name evoked conflict.

He beheld the uplifted chin and the defined jaw.

The statue gazed into nothingness, yet watched over all.

Behind him, the cloak, though wrought of stone, seemed to float in the wind.

The details commanded reverence and exuded majesty.

Upon each shoulder perched a raven, larger than his own head, with eyes of precious stone that seemed to watch him wheresoever he stood, as if they were alive.

And the claws, dug in, so sharp they resembled steel—or perhaps were steel.

Narg never dared to touch them; the energy surrounding him, which the cold stone seemed to emanate, was so warm and powerful.

From the perfect curls that recalled the hero’s innate beauty to the tips of his boots, with their raised heels, like those he chose to wear, perhaps in commemoration, perhaps by inheritance.

The sleet waxed fiercer by the moment, and Narg pursed his lips, pulling his black feathered tunic tighter to keep warm. The feast within awaited him, yet he desired to remain there—or perhaps he had to; he did not know at that moment.

He turned towards Tower at his side; flecked with snow, the steed seemed grey-haired, like him, and against his glossy black coat the snowflakes stood out perfectly.

But he thought he heard Alfredo calling him and turned back towards him.

His image, with his right arm outstretched holding the everlasting torch, with the Everflame that illuminated the truth, the path, justice.

Six generations, and still burning it would outlive them all, just as it would the memory of the one whose body lay amongst the rocks, surrounded by the remains of his eight warriors with whom he had forged Móntria and Tloston.

Alfredo, in his stoic presence, immortalised, carved with the most absolute and exquisite detail, stood before him, furrowed brow and calm smile alike. He looked down upon him and, from there, judged him.

The Everflame flickered as Narg’s thoughts did—rhythmically, with the wind—and as it crackled, a spark was born.

Slowly, as if cradled by the dense air, it drifted and passed before Narg’s very nose, and he followed it with his gaze.

It hovered at Alfredo’s feet whilst illuminating a block of stone, solid, different from the rest that made up the base where the legend stood.

For a second, or two, it flickered, and Narg gazed in astonishment at the wink.

It continued its descent, somewhat faster, with urgency in its message, and, right in front of Narg’s boots, it died in the snow.