IV – Gates to the Abyss #2

They followed him to the main hall, in single file; in the middle, Gwion, with his majestic bearing, his hair falling over his broad, chiselled shoulders.

He strode with back straight and chin held high, that all might see he was in command.

He knew when to speak and how to move, having been raised within Old Minister’s castle; situations of etiquette and protocol did not amuse him, yet they were not alien to him either.

The guard turned to them to explain that he would have to wake the old lady, for the servants were at rest. He requested that they be patient and keep silence.

'The lady hath not been feeling well of late; it may take her a while to come down. Given the hour and circumstance, your visit must needs be urgent.'

Gerinson nodded with a friendly smile, but remained silent; he feared his voice might arouse suspicion. He could not get the word Wolf out of his mind, nor the feel of that creature’s vitality.

The early morn’s chill was unrelenting; there was no fire burning to ward it off within the immense castle, whose ceiling was so high that, in the darkness, it seemed not to exist. Yet Gwion did not suffer it; his body felt warm, as if he were wearing a thick cloak over his shoulders.

He cast a glance at Gregor and then at the soldier who strode before them; their lips were blue and their teeth did chatter.

Comforted by that strange sensation, he beheld his forearms; the veins that emerged formed mountains against the whiteness of his skin and the deep grooves of his tense muscles.

When the soldier went upstairs, Gwion waited until he was out of sight and signalled to Gregor.

He did not know how much time he would have to find the library.

Where to begin searching? he wondered, and in response he recalled the tale Milkron used to tell him and Maed whilst they were ploughing the land.

His stepfather had worked as a servant to the lords in his youth; he possessed a collection of tales concerning the castles and their curiosities.

And that one in particular, the one he recalled as he climbed the stairs, amused him: it seemed that many of the palaces in the Móntria region had been raised by the selfsame architect.

'The kings boast that their castles are the most luxurious and grandiose, but in reality, they are all the same. Either the chap who sold them the same blueprint was an idler, or the lords were too stingy to pay more. My little hut is more beautiful, because it is original, than all those walls built in each other’s image,' he would tell them, proud of his home.

Gwion closed his eyes to offer a prayer to Odín and asked that the castles of Ubberia and Old Minister be included in that lot.

Second floor, third door. He trusted that premise and ran stealthily.

A deathly chill gripped him from behind as he recalled that night when, on the eve of the Yule festivities, they attacked the Ubberian camp.

Upon reaching the supposed door, he steeled himself: it could well be Halfdan’s own bedchamber, and causing a commotion would spell the end of his mission.

He turned the latch to the left, very slowly, with his right shoulder against the door.

He began to feel it give way under his weight.

He pushed until he could peer through a small crack.

The chamber lay shrouded in utter darkness—yet Gwion’s pupils dilated until they wholly consumed his irises.

First he noted the elliptical form, and at the far end the broad windows; then, upon the walls, the silhouettes of shelves crammed with tomes resolved before his eyes, which took in every detail as though it were full noon.

He smiled up at the heavens in thanks for the guidance and ventured in, searching for that reading chair which had, at least, a shelf above its headrest.

Moving sideways, so as not to make a sound with each step, he made his way along the long table that ran perpendicular across the centre of the room and ran the tip of his index finger over the soft green upholstery of what appeared to be at least a dozen chairs.

He shook his head whilst muttering to himself as he realised that, along the walls, interspersed with small round tables, there were reading chairs.

He scanned them with his eyes, but none seemed to be the right one until, by the large window, he saw it.

Crafted from polished light wood, it seemed to glow.

He advanced with quiet steps whilst time raced by, just as his mind did.

What was all this going on around him, and why would Narg want that manuscript so urgently, sending him out at this hour of the night to steal it? What game was he playing, and why did he not take what now, as the rightful ruler, belonged to him?

The figure of Gwion, standing by the window in the half-light, illuminated by the faint glow of the night seeping in, was eclipsed. A shadow behind him drew nearer.

It was not the creaking of the wood nor the echo of footsteps. Nor was it the sound of breathing or the breeze of movement. It was his instinct, his inner voice that warned him. He turned as he drew his broadsword into the air.

The slender, hooded figure halted. It was impossible to discern who it might be, yet he divined their purpose when, in a twinkling, he perceived them calculating the distance to the chair but a few paces distant. They shared the selfsame end: to filch the manuscript.

Gwion pondered for a heartbeat: the figure was nearer than he; he must needs stay its passage.

He gripped the hilt with both hands and lunged, raising the blade.

A long stride forward, using the length of his legs to his advantage, and he brought the blade down with all his strength, aiming for the figure’s head.

The whistling blade fell silent with a rip.

His opponent’s cloak was sliced in two as he swept past on the momentum of the blow—for, to his astonishment, the intruder’s slender form dissolved into smoke, dark and dense, before his very eyes.

His heart in his throat, Gwion spun in desperation and beheld the figure—transparent now, composed of violet gas—begin to warp and distort until it evaporated towards the doorway.

He considered for a moment raising the alarm as he picked up the piece of coarse woollen cloth, but then realised: it was an intruder, a thief, just like him.

With his pulse racing, he stood before the chair and gazed upon it. Covered in symbols and carved flowers, it undoubtedly belonged to a dynasty far older than his intellect could comprehend.

The shelf stood at just the right height for him to reach out and take the golden vase. He reached in until his fingers touched something soft and rough.

'I know thy truth; I possess Perkolon’s manuscript, and with it I shall cleanse thy fabricated blood.'

Halfdan’s voice screamed within his head. He turned in fear, expecting to behold his spirit. Was it he who, from the grave, desired to prevent it from being stolen? But he beheld no one and grew even more disquieted.

He carefully removed the manuscript and held it in his right palm. With the tips of his left-hand fingers, he examined it: the ink had left raised patterns. He felt the letters, words and symbols forming, though he did not understand them.

'Slowly, my lady, there is no rush. Noble knights are patient.'

Gwion Gerinson’s ears pricked up and his heart strove to burst from between his ribs.

He must needs depart at any cost, yet first he loosened his shirt and pressed the manuscript against his abdomen.

Should they apprehend him within the library he might contrive some excuse, but if they beheld him with the papyrus in his hands he would be undone.

He crouched, knees bent and palms upon the floor, hunching his back until his shoulders touched his earlobes.

The more surface area he covered to support his body’s weight, the less noise he would make moving, he concluded.

He glided, lightly, in a matter of seconds, to the door and poked his head out.

A faint, flickering light illuminated the top of the staircase and drew nearer to that corridor.

He had the advantage of the darkness in the hallways.

Four chambers lay between the library and the staircase.

He stepped out and, without rising, drew as deep a breath as he could and waited in the gloom.

The light of the candle guiding the old woman’s path made two bluish points flicker in the shadows: an imposing beast had slipped into the palace.

The widow shattered the silence with a shriek.

The guardian drew his sword and stood before her to protect her.

From the shadows, that figure rose and revealed its face.

'I am sorry to have frightened thee, madame ,' he said with a bow. 'I did not wish for thee to continue on thy journey when I possess the youth to approach thee.'

Gwion held forth the sealed envelope and smiled, revealing his ivory teeth.

'You know, you are very kind, but you might have announced yourself,' she chided, without losing the peculiar sweetness in her tone. 'You nearly slew your king’s guest of honour with that fright.'

Halfdan’s widow, Miar, took the missive and held it up to the yellowish light.

With sluggish slowness, she broke the wax bearing the royal Hugnork seal, unfolded the paper and began to read, squinting.

At length she raised her head and held forth her hand to Gwion.

At her age it was no easy thing for her to walk unaided, and he, being the elite warrior he was, helped her draw near.

The lady, whose form was draped in a translucent crimson dressing gown, drew her lips near to Gwion’s ear, but not before taking him in from head to toe.

'It is an honour to meet you. I have heard many tales of the elite warriors of Old Minister. My hands, though old, are at your service.'