VII - Sleepless Night #4

With a single movement, Gregor broke free from Bartón and lunged at Kuopio.

He seized him by the neck and shoved him against the wall.

Owin narrowed his eyes, clenched his teeth and, as he pushed his way through the brothers, drew his sword.

Gregor’s shoulder twisted between his fingers, which he dug in until, with a groan of pain, he released Kuopio.

'Enough!' roared Gwion. 'If we slay one another, what shall be left for the forces that seek to destroy our kingdom?'

'I have ever wondered why Owin was my father’s successor when Tros is by far the more powerful.'

Cheas pushed his way through from the back of the corridor and shoved his comrade aside with a sidelong glance as he reached his side.

' Perkolon ,' quoth Owin, ignoring him.

That word echoed through the narrow, oval corridor lined with stone and torches.

'First, he speaketh of a child sent from Lepontia—the heir to the Blood Moon,' quoth Gregor, mindful that none should erupt in anger. 'Then of Old Minister being an empire linked to the lineage of Alfredo. Also of time—forty years to unleash the darkness. And last, of Odín’s Wolves.'

Gregor cast a sidelong glance at Gwion, who leaned against the wall, biting his lower lip so hard it bled.

On the horizon, amidst the encircling mountain ranges, he could discern the tower of Lepontia Castle rising up. He stretched his body forwards and raised his head until his spine was straight.

Another howl reached him and he beheld two blue dots approaching through the thick grey mist. He felt at his waist; his sword was there. He drew it and managed to stand.

Another howl, and he felt the beast’s breath upon him. With a swift sweep of his flaming arm, he felt Santiana slice through flesh as it danced. A thick, warm liquid washed over him. The flames died down, and through the trees he saw it running.

'So,' quoth Arwel, craning his slender neck upwards, 'how is Narg supposed to wipe out humanity?'

'Your doubts are ours, the ones that drive us to seek the truth. No one has said it is true, but if it were...' said Gregor, raising his eyebrows as he untangled his beard.

'So, it is as unrealistic as Ragnarok.'

Arwel was right; put that way, it seemed implausible. Gregor, unable to find a way to convey what alarmed him, shrugged. Gwion, snapping out of his thoughts, wiped the blood from his lip with a piece of soft, whitish cloth, like a bandage, that hung from Cheas’s belt.

'Narg shall turn forty in four nights’ time, counting from the morrow.'

'If it be true, whether it transpire within the kingdom or beyond, we should not lose sight of Narg or Windar,' Owin interjected, and Arwel regarded him with disappointment: he was on the traitors’ side. 'If it be not him, and it be a conspiracy by Halfdan, we must be on our guard.'

And those final words satisfied the troop commander. In truth, that was the real reason they should be alarmed, he thought. Not because Narg was going to annihilate humanity, but to anticipate the Ubberian uprising. Then it became clear to him: that was the end of the thread he needed to pull.

'How doth the sorcerer’s apprentice intend to achieve it?' asked Bartón sarcastically, 'with magic? On that day, Old Minister shall be crowded with guests from all the kingdoms. We must be Narg’s shadow, lest some valiant soul, with a broken heart, seek to harm him.'

He was right; two days earlier, a hundred ravens had set off from Old Minister bound for the nations, bearing invitations to the lords for the great banquet in the name of the sovereign of the Empire of Móntria.

And, although relations were strained following the incident with Celtión, Lerg, Narg’s cousin and King of Welst in the lands of Tloston, east of Móntria, would also be attending.

'We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,' Maed interjected, breaking the silence with a somewhat bored expression. 'In the meantime, let us shake hands and make for the tavern. It must be shift change—and I am perishing for Luchille to fill my cup with mead.'

The lecherous look in his eyes made them laugh, but Cheas and Gwion shot him a withering glance. Owin, for the first time, accepted the proposal; he was the one who most needed a strong drink of life to put right what Tros’s spell had thrown into disarray within him.

Cheas, on the other hand, without even excusing himself or saying farewell, made for his chamber.

Although he had not found aught either, he was sure he had heard that potent word before.

He hesitated to mention it when something within him stayed his tongue.

He would keep it as yet another secret to add to the ones he already had—at least one.

'So, the fact that they have betrayed Narg’s trust is settled with a handshake,' Arwel remarked angrily.

He was not content; his morale, as high as the very walls of the kingdom, would not allow it.

Gwion took him by the shoulder and invited him to walk a few paces ahead of the rest. He felt genuine admiration for him; it was Arwel who had given him his first lessons in the art of hand-to-hand combat, the same man who had rested his sword on his shoulder to welcome him into the troop, and who had interceded with Narg so that he might be considered part of the council.

'I am terrified, and I am not afraid to admit it to you.'

With his head bowed, he emphasised what he had felt upon meeting the hooded figure and told him about the reference to the wolves and, in detail, what Tower had said to him.

'We must stand together and fight against the darkness. In case you do not know yet, you are my role model. To me, your words are truth and your advice, commands. I will never forget the conversation we had at the crossroads and, though I hated you for a time, I know you were right.'

He heard a deep, macabre laugh to his right; it circled round behind him and ended up in his left ear.

'I have got you,' whispered the breath that brushed his neck.

A shiver ran down his spine and a sharp pang pierced his left rib. He beheld the wound: a large black feather, like the one that had covered his body moments before, had sliced through his flesh and was bathing him in his own blood.

Another laugh, coming from a few paces before him, was followed by the shriek of a woman drawing nearer.

'Who art thou?' asked Narg, and through the thick mist he made out the outline of a dress running towards him.

He went upon the defensive: he bent his right elbow, his forearm parallel to the ground and level with his ear, the tip of the sword pointing forward, and waited.

The form of the lady grew clearer, yet he could not behold her visage; she appeared to regard whosoever pursued her.

Without halting, the damsel turned her head and beheld him.

'What are you doing here?' asked Narg hopefully.

He lowered his guard and opened his arms to welcome her when he beheld how, behind her, a towering purple shadow, with two gleaming red dots in the midst, drew near.

The sorcery of that place prevented him from moving forward—so he stretched forth one arm to reach the damsel who, her eyes filled with panic, ran towards him for protection. He strained forward, resolved to gain ground, to catch her and bring her to safety before it reached her.

He was about to touch her hand when the purple smoke shifted. The shadow, now a gaping maw with monstrous fangs, encircled her about the waist and, right before his eyes, devoured her.

'Celtión, NO!'

The cry rang through the bedchamber. Narg, drenched in sweat, opened his eyes and found himself sitting upon his bed, his right arm stretched out before him, as if he were still striving to reach her.

'No, Celtión, no.'