VII - Sleepless Night #2

His heart swelled until it filled his chest. Every beat pressed against his ribs and lungs so hard it choked him. He stood motionless, his stomach and intestines compressed.

When the feathers had cleared, he perceived that the figures were no longer present, yet from the horizon, behind the mist, flapping its wings, a raven was bearing straight toward him, beak gaping and pinions outstretched.

Just as it was about to strike his brow, it cawed.

Narg pressed his eyelids shut. The impact shook his frame, and then silence.

Gwion, uttering no word, his hair tousled as he adjusted his belt, greeted them with a grimace. Behind him, smiling, Arwel entered.

'You owe me two coins,' he said to Cheas, holding out his palm before sitting down beside him. 'One mountain bear growls less.'

Gwion, abashed, took his seat beside Bartón.

'Narg hath retired into seclusion once more,' said Owin, and held forth a page from a book bearing a drawing of a purple flower for his comrades to behold.

'I am solicitous; I have dispatched messengers for verbena from Korkolat to compound another ointment.

I pray it may stay the migraines. This morn the anguish cast him into unconsciousness. '

Gwion raised his head above Bartón to address Gregor.

'He must have read Perkolon’s manuscript.'

'The one Halfdan mentioned before he met Santiana’s cold embrace?' said Owin.

Gwion’s stiff neck cracked at the sudden turn.

Owin, without beating about the bush, explained how he had helped Narg draft that note, how anxious he had seen him, and the details of Miar’s reply.

Cheas lowered his gaze, his wounded ego stinging.

If he was the scribe, why had he not been given that task?

'It stated exactly where the parchment was, but in return Narg had to hand something over to him; otherwise, he would make it public,' remarked Owin, closing the book before him. ' Perkolon —that word intrigues me, but even though I searched the entire library, I found no reference to it.'

'Firstly, that explains why, upon perusing the note, the widow knew the purpose of your visit,' quoth Gregor, addressing Gwion. 'Secondly, it likewise explains the urgency.'

'Almost two months have passed. If he had made public what the manuscript says, we should have all the villages clamouring for Narg’s head.'

Owin and Bartón slammed their fists upon the table and rose together, as if following a rehearsed routine.

Maed, with his hand firmly upon Owin’s narrow breast, stayed his advance, whilst Bartón, standing hard by Gwion, sought to seize him by the throat, yet Arwel, at the far end of the table, seized his wrist with his lightning-fast reflexes.

The tension cut through the air for a moment.

The elderly librarian rose menacingly from his armchair.

Arwel squeezed Bartón’s wrist to force him back into his seat and, with a glance, commanded Owin and Maed to do the same.

'Why have you betrayed him?' asked Arwel, disappointed.

He took hold of the pendant at his neck—the rune of Tyr, god of war, the only one ever faithful to him, and to whom he turned to quell his impulse for justice.

Maed cast a glance at Gwion and shook his head. His brother had disregarded the waypoint signs for three hamlets, and now, from afar, he laboured to discern the path whereby to pursue him.

Gwion sought to justify himself, despite how far-fetched it sounded.

'Tower, has that bloody horse spoken to you?' asked Kuopio with a laugh. 'Do not kill him; I saw an Ubberian land a blow to his head with a flail. He did not send him over the rainbow bridge, but he did transport his brain to another world.'

'Believe me or not,' Gwion remarked rhetorically, 'this matter concerns all of humanity. If I have the courage to stand before you, the least I expect is that you listen to me and then do with me as you please.'

Gwion did not recognise himself, as if it were another speaking, one braver and more reckless, unafraid of the consequences, one raising a warning flag about something he himself did not even know what it was.

'Gwion hath told us of Tower,' Cheas spake up.

Calm and gentle, he brought the rest into harmony. But Arwel could not settle; his anxiety tinged every movement: one hand upon the table tapped rhythmically against the wood, whilst the other, beneath it, caressed the hilt.

'Well, another one who thinks he is chosen to hide the madness,' said Bartón, tilting his head.

For him, discourse of oracles and emissaries was the ultimate word. He was undoubtedly the most devout of the company. He was not proud to be part of the council; rather, he boasted of being a defender of the blood blessed by Odín himself.

His bushy eyebrows, which stood out against his shiny bald head, arched as he looked at Cheas with a hint of contempt.

'And how convenient that it is you who is covering for him.'

Kuopio interposed, impatient because hunger gnawed at him, even as Cheas rose from the bench, prepared to menace Bartón.

'Well then, cattle rustler, what did the manuscript say?'

'That it must be something important enough to make me stop thinking of the thousand ways I would gut you, right here, upon this table,' Arwel declared, raising his right hand. 'Betrayal is paid for, I swear to you.'

They were not mere words; he kissed the silver ring upon his ring finger. The ring of the kingdom, carved with the heads of two intertwined ravens, their beaks open, gazing left and right, representing Hugin and Munin.

Bartón was the first to imitate him. One by one, Gwion beheld them repeat the oath. Gregor, his accomplice, bowed his head, but it was Maed who daunted him. Like a stampede, he locked eyes with him, frowned and kissed his ring.

A gust of wind across his visage and the sunlight, filtering through the leafy canopies of the spring trees, roused him.

He could not recall departing the palace and believed that the last time he had crossed those walls was to set out northwards, to the Battle of Ubberia.

He felt alive, full of vigour; with that sense of absolute power, he felt invincible, omnipotent.

A distant whistle reached him.

'Hugin, come here.'

He began to rise, not of his own volition; he had no control over his body. He looked down; the ground was receding. Swiftly, the air struck his face. The treetops lay beneath his feet. 'I am flying!' he thought, elated.

His eyes discerned, at an immense distance, an outstretched arm, parallel to the ground and clad in a brown leather gauntlet.

A supernatural force drew him towards it with a speed that increased until, at last, he began to plummet.

He closed his eyes; everything around him was moving so swiftly it took his breath away.

He realised he was no longer moving and, to his touch, felt his feet come to rest. He opened his eyes, astonished to find himself standing upon the piece of leather; then, he understood.

He stretched forth one of his arms, lightly. 'Feathers!' he exclaimed. Shiny and black as the shadows of a moonless twilight. He sought to touch his face.

'Cease preening thyself, thou lookest splendid as ever. I beseech thee, mind, abide in the present, lay thy ego aside. I shall show thee something important that Odín must know.'

He recognised the voice instantly. Shoulder-length black hair flecked with white, eyes as blue as a summer sky, a well-defined jaw, a shadow of whitish beard at the lip.

He denied what he saw —until he noted the scar upon the left side of the forehead.

'It is—it is—Narg. IT IS ME!' he cried within his mind.

He beheld himself as in the reflection of his sword’s polished metal. Panic seized him. He opened his mouth to scream, but what issued from his throat frightened him even more: a loud, drawn-out screech.

'Calm thyself, Hugin. Thou shalt understand when the hour is ripe, but for now we must hide.'

Stunned, he perched upon his own arm, and they reached what appeared to be the verge of a lush forest. With every step they took—Narg the man and Narg the raven—the shadows grew until they were enveloped in an unfathomable gloom.

After walking for a few minutes amongst the trees upon the leaf-strewn ground, they entered a rustic stone cave, damp and covered in moss, with a distinct smell of freshly cut grass.

Shrouded in darkness, his plumage became part of the scenery.

The constant gleam in his eyes and his deep breathing, as a man, were the only signs that there was life within.

That environment, though far from welcoming, permitted him to experience profound matters he had never known.

His five senses were awakened, as if he had spent his life in a state of slumber.

He could hear the distant sound of running water; he even thought he could smell the salt of the foam crashing against the rock.

The spring air caressed his feathers and made him shiver.

The gallop, a whinny and a chorus of voices broke his trance.

His human form led him unto the mouth of the cave.

Concealed, they blended into the shadows, aided by a thick mist drifting in from the south.

He made out two silhouettes, and that intuition he had developed since closing his eyes in his chamber—if it still lingered there—assured him that he recognised them.

The mist thickened and veiled the figures up to their waists. He sharpened his gaze, feeling how, without stirring, he drew nearer to his quarry. 'The eyes of the raven,' he thought.

The figures came into focus, but he could only make out gleaming armour, with triple-bladed pauldrons protruding, and on their backs, red cloaks embroidered with a raven with its beak open and wing outstretched.

He closed his eyes; if he could not see, he desired to hear them. He had recognised Alfredo’s insignia; only his retinue enjoyed the luxury of wearing that embroidery, the remainder of the guard bore a black cloak with a gold trim upon the hem.