X – The Invisible Hand #4

'Lepontia?' the man inquired, and upon receiving confirmation, he made for the exit when, standing in a puddle of water, he turned to ask her: 'Do you intend to spend another night in company?'

'Rest assured, information comes at a price, though not an unpleasant one. We shall meet tonight. Tell them to get ready. There is a birthday to celebrate.'

The storm battering Old Minister and its environs was precisely as foretold. A swirling wind tore trees from their roots and lightning snapped branches as Gregor struggled to hold the reins of Clarens, who was startled by every clap of thunder, so that neither he nor Owin would fall.

Bearing towards the Oak of Brimmon, upon arriving at the crossroads, they turned westward toward Utmia.

The twenty-minute trudge consumed twice the time, owing to the extreme mire caused by the torrential rain that had fallen in but a few hours.

It was impossible for them to keep a steady pace, the horseshoes oftentimes becoming fastened in the clay.

'You should have picked another day to fall behind, should you not?' joked Gregor.

'I can see naught. I shall not be able to kindle a fire; the gods must hate me.'

'Do not blame them for your own folly. Confess, what was the cause of your tarrying?'

Owin answered with silence and wrapped his arms about Gregor’s body. The cold rain had turned his lips blue and accentuated the deep, purplish circles beneath his eyes against his extreme pallor.

'We are here,' said Gregor, tugging upon Clarens’s lead to stay his progress. 'Even if you cannot see it, the great oak stands but fifty paces hence.'

Owin lighted down, brushed his hair back into a ponytail so it would not cling to his visage, and yielded up his cloak.

'What a night!' cried Gregor, and from the saddle he looked pityingly upon his comrade who, soaked and without armour, seemed to have shrunk.

'Take the counsel of one who would have you live: first, get away from the tree; second, dig a trench with your sword as deep as you can and get therein.

With the wind blowing like this, some missile might strike you. '

Owin nodded. The rain eased somewhat and his eyes began to adjust to the gloom of the open country. He could now discern the silhouette of the Oak of Brimmon to his right.

He found it somewhat difficult to follow Gregor’s counsel. The oak was girt by other trees, albeit smaller ones, whilst the ground about it was hard despite the rain, full of rocks and thick roots that bruised the blade of his sword with every thrust.

He laboured for a long while until his arms gave way beneath the weight of his sodden garb. He found it hard to breathe, as if his lungs were worn out.

He cast his gaze about and espied in the distance the silhouette of a hut agleam with light. He pondered for a moment to seek shelter, but his honour forbade it. What would his king say if he found out?

Exhausted, he sat down upon the ground, stuck his sword into the earth beside him and beheld the heavens. To the north, he could make out the silhouette of the crescent moon through the black clouds racing swiftly by, driven by the wind. It was near midnight.

Grief overwhelmed him; he was weary, there alone, in the midst of nowhere.

He felt small, vulnerable. He, who spent his days shut away in that attic, amongst ancient books in divers languages, learning of myths, potions and medicine—with all that learning, and yet he had no remedy for his loneliness.

Ashamed, he hid his face in his hands and his heart-rending sobs competed with the storm until a laugh, like thunder, struck his back.

With his sight blurred by mud and salt, he discerned a glimmer amid the trees.

A hundred questions swept away his desolation.

He rose and studied the sight; the glow appeared to dance amid the shadows of the grove.

'A campfire?' he thought, yet dismissed the notion straightway; it was impossible to keep a fire alight with the gale lashing about.

Heading towards the light, Owin gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

His hands were clammy, so he tucked the blade beneath his armpit and wiped them upon his trousers.

A little closer on, hidden amongst the bushes, he espied a shadow casting a distinct silhouette that seemed to dance in front of the glow.

A jolt of electricity shot up from his ankles and he felt every hair upon his body stand on end, making him shiver. 'Cold or excitement?' he wondered, and, without thinking upon the risk, taking heed where he stepped lest he be espied, he moved forward.

An unseen hand seized his shoulder and whirled him about. He did not know what smote the nape of his neck. The sharp thud rang in his brain, a shrilling beep deafened him, and then day broke. An emerald light lingered in his eyes and, within his mind, the faint echo of a prayer:

Ogkahom jeyat jkëäroma nema. Tuätoëihä torllihä.

Sjhmajim misun fosjlëdkisa nisa. Pehaskajam niemad täjkänisa. Tuätoëihä susihä.

Vahom äthöëdkisa nisa. Tëlëmkesja jahtat däofkëltëhemisa.