VII - Sleepless Night #3

'It is time. He shall awaken to purify the land, and thou shalt stand at his side. Blood upon the feather, claw upon the flesh—never hath such voracity been beheld. The raven shall die this night, and it shall be he who, ere drawing his last breath, hands me Geri’s claw.

I shall be reborn; I shall be one with him—my body shall be his, and his power, mine. '

Rage took hold of Narg. He was a puppet whose strings were being pulled by a traitor.

An immense force gripped his stomach and suddenly he was in control of his body.

It was instinctive; he did not think about the form he had taken, nor did he question whether it was a nightmare or a vision of the future.

It felt real. He spread his wings and flapped them vigorously until he took flight.

Two beats of his feathered limbs sufficed to bear him clear of the cavern, yet, once his form was fully without, a searing sensation overwhelmed him. He was burning up in flight.

The agony was unbearable and the flames upon his visage blinded him, yet, obstinate, he yearned to overtake the traitors. He would not depart this world without beholding the countenances of the faithless.

Like a ball of fire, he moved through the trees. With every flap of his wings, his speed increased, but he lost altitude as the ashes of his feathers left a trail in his wake.

A howl rent his concentration and tore at his heart. Then another, prolonged, heart-rending. Narg was but a few paces from unmasking his traitors when he beheld a shadow pass by his side. Swiftly he fanned the flames, and the burning twisted his insides.

But a few paces more; he was nigh. He concentrated on holding his breath for one final draught. There were the two figures; one had their back unto him, the other, facing him, espied him.

'No. Not you,' he cried, and heard the squawk that issued from his beak.

Gwion, lost in his tale, his chin raised, endeavoured to observe each of them.

'It is a letter, it seemeth, addressed to Windar, wherein he speaketh of Narg being the key to the reincarnation of the shadows and the end of humanity.'

What followed transpired within but a few seconds.

Arwel, without uttering a word, took the small dagger strapped to his left forearm, placed a foot upon the bench and leapt onto the plank.

He flew past Kuopio, Gregor and Bartón and landed upon Gwion.

By reason of the momentum, together with the bench, they all toppled backwards.

Gwion seized his wrist and, with his free hand and both legs, strove to free himself. Yet he lay at a thorough disadvantage; one of Arwel’s knees pressed upon his stomach, he could not breathe, and, bereft of air, his strength failed him.

Kuopio took advantage of the fall and, before Gregor, who stood hard by, could defend himself, landed a blow upon his eye that rendered him senseless.

The librarian rose from the armchair. He raised his staff above his head and the flames of the Water Candle shot up towards the ceiling.

The flames consumed him, yet he summoned every last ounce of vitality. The pale visage of his warrior stared at him through his straight hair.

One more flap, and another. The collision was imminent, but in the moment before, the fire overpowered him. Then, smoke and agony.

He collapsed and began to roll as he realised the yellow light of the flames was dying out. He tried to stand, yet something anchored him to the ground. On his knees, doubled over in excruciating pain, he noted he had regained his human form when he rested his hands upon the grass.

From his right there came a breeze bearing another howl.

Cheas drew his sword and signalled to Maed to cover the flanks.

Then he leapt upon the table with the agility of a grasshopper.

Bartón, who was striving to free his sword from the weight of the bench, felt the cold press against his neck.

Cheas’s defiant gaze left him no choice but to surrender if he desired to escape unscathed, without giving him another excuse to take revenge for the sharp remark uttered earlier.

He felt the mud splatter beneath his boots with every desperate stride.

He was fleeing, yet whoever pursued him was gnawing at his heels.

He stumbled and the mud smeared his calves.

With his ankle maimed, he crept to the hollow of a dead tree and lay in wait.

He knew where he was; he had been there before.

He knew his hunter, whose concrete-soled boots made the ground tremble.

Maed came to his brother’s rescue. He seized Arwel by the arms from behind and drew him from Gwion just as a hollow, dry thud shook the ground.

The shockwaves spread like ripples until every brick in the castle trembled.

The vibration swirled upwards and scattered in bursts.

As tomes and scrolls were hurled hither and thither, the great Water Candle was extinguished, and in that instant darkness thickened the air and a shrill, piercing screech struck them, seeping into their very core through every pore.

Those who had not already fallen from the tremor collapsed to their knees, gripped by a cosmic anguish—the kind that squeezes the chest until the soul strains to escape.

Cheas was the first whose tears bathed his thin, pale face.

The desperate sound mingled with the wails of despair coming from the hall and beyond.

Owin unclenched his claw-like fingers. He forced them together as an indigo spark flared between them. He meant to stay it, to use his power, his magic, but another sudden jolt rippled through the floor and he ended up upon his knees, blinded by his own tears that burned like fire.

Maed regained his composure almost effortlessly and helped Gwion to his feet. They beheld Arwel, who lay upon his back, rolling from left to right, rocking, drowned in grief.

The Gerinsons, standing in the immense hall shrouded in an ancient darkness, beheld passing silhouettes that caused them to shudder.

They searched the library from north to south and from east to west in quest of the assailant.

The elderly guardian of Old Minister’s lore was the only one they found standing before his stool, his rustic staff in hand.

His visage was illuminated by a beam emanating from his breast, revealing eyes so white they seemed to have lost their irises.

He beheld them and smote the floor anew with his staff.

From the tip, burgundy sparks flew, and another deafening sound, accompanied by a gust of thick wind, swept through the chamber.

The shockwave reached them. Gwion did brace himself against the table’s edge, Maed clinging to him, but when it smote the rest, the air did crackle with a scream of pain and sorrow.

And both, their hair standing on end and their eyes glassy, beholding their comrades’ anguish, did feel the pain that the spell could not.

'Do not set foot in this place again,' ordered the librarian.

'If you do not stay his hand at once, I shall not merely set foot in here—I shall set it upon you, whilst I crush your decrepit body beneath my boot and slice your flesh,' Maed threatened furiously, pointing his short broad-bladed sword at the old man.

Even as the old man raised his staff once more, Maed rushed towards him. He was about to slice through his flesh when a brownish light flooded the room and a voice called out to him:

'Maed, no!'

Huddled within the log, he sobbed in terror and hid his head ’twixt his knees. The air thickened, and Narg began to cough. Smoke encompassed him; the dry log was burning. He beheld his hands, his breast ablaze, yet, far from departing, he clung even tighter to his legs.

A brownish light and a childish voice, calling his name, brought back memories. He reached into his trouser pocket and clutched the stone he kept there.

Cheas, hidden behind the table, pleaded with him.

'We broke the rules,' he said, his face drenched in sweat as he peered out from behind the table, 'but Tros—cease, I beseech thee, for my father’s sake.'

The librarian struck his staff again, though, just as Maed was about to finish what he had started, the pistils of the Water Candle flared up in a flash .

He was blinded, and by the time he could see again, Tros, as if he had never stood up, was sitting at the desk, surrounded by his papyri and inkwells.

He poked his head out. The forest had turned into a swamp that burned like him, and the air was thick with leaden smoke and a purple mist that made breathing difficult.

The voice continued to call to him from afar and, driven by it, he crawled out of the shelter upon all fours.

All present, including Freya’s priests—who, indifferent to the event, had merely watched—filtered out in single file.

Arwel led the way, wiping the salt from his cheeks.

Owin followed, ahead of Maed and Gwion. Just behind them, Bartón and Kuopio bore Gregor.

Finally, Cheas took charge of closing the library door.

Their countenances bore sorrow tinged with fear and resentment. They proceeded in silence along the corridor leading to Gregor’s bedchamber, where they meant to let him repose, and the only sound was that of their boots clattering against the cobblestones.

'Would anyone be so kind as to explain what we have just been through, even if it be that madman Gwion?' said Kuopio, almost out of breath.

It was not Gregor’s weight that unsettled him, but his soul, which trembled and shivered in despair.

Cheas opened his mouth to explain when a sustained growl halted the two escorts in their tracks.

'Get your hands off me. You, stinking scum, just you wait and see what I will do to you!'