IV – Gates to the Abyss #3

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the hem of his shirt peeking out from his trousers and, raising an eyebrow, drew his attention unto it.

'You know, in the game of the kangaroo, he who does not jump still hops.'

'It would seem rabbits play their part too,' retorted Gwion, raising the intruder’s torn cloth into the air.

He did not need to say anything else. She had guessed the true intent of the visit, but her twisted mouth let Gwion know how surprised she was that another was involved.

'I hope that before mine eyes close for eternity, I may have the blessing of seeing you again,' she finished in a whisper as she drew near to Gwion’s cheek and, ere he could react, kissed him.

With a slight bow, she lowered her head to hide her blush and turned on her heel.

He descended the steps two at a time. As he passed Gregor, he gave him a nod and they both made their retreat.

Gwion loosed Tower with an expression so grim and commanding that the horse took it in instantly. Alongside their steeds, they walked with the reins in their hands, ready to depart Ubberia.

Gregor observed his demeanour, the speed of his stride, the straightness of his back, the tension in his muscles, the constant movement of his eyes darting from side to side in a state of alert.

He scanned his body, his clenched fists, his set jaw and the sweat glistening on his forehead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the pack and tilted his chin upwards.

'It hath been a night for the finest minstrels to sing of. Once we are upon the move, I shall give you all the particulars, but I can tell you now that I received a strange kiss upon the cheek from Halfdan’s widow herself.'

At a steady gallop they departed the realm, ceasing not until they had crossed the border.

In his mind Gwion replayed the scene: the enigmatic assailant, the manner of his vanishing, the widow’s countenance as she perused the missive.

Before them the tips of Tower’s ears stood erect, and he, leaning forward in the saddle, sought to make sense of it all.

The three bluish towers of Old Minister Castle were already visible when Gwion pulled on the reins and turned to the right. Gregor followed without question; though concerned, he knew where they were heading.

Once deep within the wood, the Cave of Whispers loomed before them, hewn of rock and cloaked in green vines. They dismounted at its brink, beside certain logs that ringed the remnants of a fire, which Gregor took occasion to kindle.

That place was the troop’s refuge when the weight of duty wore them down.

Despite its name, the whole kingdom knew where it lay—even Narg had sought it out countless times in search of Celtión, when the girl had slipped away to play with Cheas, Gwion and Maed.

For them, it was the refuge where nature embraced them protectively, and they could forget their lineages, their duties, and simply be.

Gwion cast a sidelong glance towards the mouth of the cave and felt the same fear he had known in boyhood when he heard the whispering breeze issue forth from within.

They knew it was but rocks, stalactites and a small pool in the midst, yet no brave soul for generations had dared to enter after dark, at least not alone.

'There are portals that our ancestors lend unto our sun—but together with the moon they reclaim their dominions, to watch over souls,' he recalled Maltón’s words, and the sigh that reached his ears made him shudder.

Gregor finished lighting the campfire, arranged some logs, and Gwion took the opportunity to doff his shirt; the night frosted the grass beneath his boots, yet his bare chest felt it not.

'It is dishevelled,' he said, pulling out the manuscript.

That rough-textured papyrus bore no seal nor wax, naught to guard its contents, and the dilemma within the warriors opened the door to the abyss: were they ready to become traitors?

The bond Narg maintained with his retinue was singular; founded upon mutual trust, it fashioned a true multilateral council, yet this did not grant them—nor any of them—leave to flout the express commands of the blessed blood of the heir of the raven.

'Wait,' he said before handing it over, 'I deem Narg is waiting for us to read it.'

He raised his right hand into a fist.

'It is his horse that troubles my mind,' he said, raising his index finger.

'Tower mentioned that you can read it; is it a coincidence that Narg ordered you to be the one to accompany me?

' He raised his middle finger. 'The widow’s reaction, that note—I am certain it referred to the papyrus,' he said, raising his ring finger.

'It is likely she realised it was about to be stolen, wherefore she sent for us so urgently. '

He seemed satisfied with what had been said, his four fingers outstretched, rigid, as if each one gave him certainty and carved into the rock that was beginning to settle over his conscience.

'Firstly, it beareth no seal; whether we peruse it or not, will Narg be aware?' quoth Gregor, sounding somewhat less hopeful. 'And secondly, he might accuse us of treason one way or another, though I do not comprehend why he would put us to the test after our impeccable record.'

Gwion stood before Tower and awaited the connection to be established. He desired to bombard him with questions, yet naught came to pass. The steed, intent upon a tuft of fresh grass, ignored him.

'One thing is clear,' said Gregor, slumping down onto a log as a dusty cloud rose from his boot, 'Narg is not the only one who seeks to lay hold of the scroll.'

Gwion called to mind the expression upon the king’s visage. Perchance the monarch was right, and betrayal trod hard upon their heels. They sought to discern how he had obtained such precise intelligence—whether Narg had broken one of his golden rules: the use of magic.

Owin was the most powerful royal sorcerer in the entire empire, but even so, Narg forbade the use of spells on the battlefield or any form of magic that might give him an advantage over the enemy.

'Odín has blessed our blood with light and truth; I need no tangents to reach it,' he boasted.

That creed, put into practice, meant that his mere presence commanded respect.

Possessing the power and not using it was enough to prove that only he could light the torches of justice.

'He is a man of supreme intelligence, of right intentions, of steadfast decisions—a monarch of his word. The conquered peoples have never known better circumstances,' quoth Gwion, who, though addressing Gregor, seemed rather to be convincing himself. 'Power doth not blind him. He is just and kind.'

'You are wise, Gwion, and for that reason, if he be in peril, we must needs read it and endeavour to succour him.'

'Pardon, yet it seemeth you veil a burning curiosity with loyalty,' Gwion shot back, and Gregor was taken aback.

'Nevertheless, I concur; the hooded one was puissant—I deem we have never encountered a might such as this.

Moreover, whether knowing or not knowing the truth shall lead me to the selfsame doom, I prefer knowledge ere I shake hands with Woden. '

Gwion unfolded the papyrus and drew nearer to the fire. Indeed, he could not discern what was written; it was in Leighill, a tongue so ancient that only kings and a select few remembered it. Gregor looked at the papyrus, then at Gwion’s frustrated eyes, and back at the papyrus.

'It appeareth to be some sort of letter penned by a man, judging by the slant of the characters and the tremor in the handwriting,' he said, pointing to one of the letters with his index finger.

'I cannot discern the kind of ink; it is thick and hath left certain raised marks, yet at the same time it hath soaked well into what seemeth to be a piece of leather.

It must be at least forty years old, or more. '

And so it was; Gregor leaned his body against a tree trunk and strained his eyes. Line by line his eyes moved downwards, and line by line the features of his face melted into terror.