XI – A Kingdom Called Lepontia #2

It had been seven years since the king had visited the lands of his birth, and Narg greeted all with a firm and sincere handshake.

He felt powerful in the face of such a reception, given that he had not announced his coming, and he etched that image into his memory to draw upon should his confidence in his manner of ruling waver.

Among the throng, with a broad smile in which his perfect teeth stood out against his dark complexion, stood Lord Pelit and his daughter Pelty.

They were both robed in a distinctive attire of shimmering fabric in shades of violet, which they had chosen with care to welcome the king of the empire.

The trousers were so wide that they resembled a skirt with four pleats at the front.

The jacket, long enough to reach just below the buttocks, ended at the front and back with a cut forming two elegant points decorated with thin yellow threads.

Fitted to the body, it crossed over to fasten almost at the level of the left ribs with striking mother-of-pearl buttons.

The wide sleeves, darker than the rest, had puffed shoulders that rose almost to the ears, giving them an imposing air.

Right at heart level, both wore a brooch bearing the coat of arms of Lepontia, and from Pelit’s neck hung the imposing round gold necklace with the emblem of Old Minister, which distinguished him as an emissary of the king of the empire.

Whilst Narg finished receiving the greetings, Maed, who knew of the romantic connection the young woman with jet-black hair and dark skin had with her commander, took the opportunity to sow the seeds of love.

'Arwel sends his warmest regards, milady ,' he said as he kissed her hand, and the young woman, her eyes cast down, blushed.

Narg embraced his emissary in a brotherly hug, disregarding all protocol. It delighted him to know that, even in distant lands such as Lepontia, he could count on the same loyalty as in his own.

As did all of Móntria’s envoys, Pelit laboured to ensure that the realm obeyed the edicts proceeding from Old Minister.

Narg was certain he had made the right choice in appointing him as the successor to the post following the death of his father, Lord Pylet.

He might be facing treachery, but his instinct allowed him to sense loyalty in his men, and he sensed honesty in Pelit—not out of convenience, but out of friendship.

Pelit had trained alongside him and Kuopio, and, given the noble title his father held, it had been natural for the Raven King to leave him in charge of his native kingdom.

'I need to see Celtión,' he whispered as he pulled him aside.

'Of course, yet thou shouldst rest first,' he counselled, endeavouring to guide him toward the chamber the servants were preparing.

'I do not intend to prolong my stay. I have come for intelligence. Inform her that I shall be meeting with the elders in the library.'

Pelit perused his countenance and perceived that something was amiss. Without further ado, he murmured instructions into the ear of a young woman robed in white, bidding her conduct them unto the portal of the great library of Móntria.

'Come on! Wake up.'

The words coming from the corridor were accompanied by incessant pounding upon his bedchamber door. Bartón drew a deep breath and attempted to close his eyes once more.

'I shall kick the door down. Open it at once!'

'And I shall kick your skinny arse until I have stripped every last ounce of flesh from your skeleton.'

Arwel smiled at the sight of Bartón’s face, his beard dripping with sticky saliva, clad in tight-fitting pyjamas.

'You must, as a matter of urgency, desist from swallowing all that crosses your path,' muttered Arwel after eyeing him from head to toe. 'Or procure yourself some new nightwear. One day we shall find you hanged by your garments, or you will gouge out some wight’s eye with a button.'

Bartón, somewhat abashed, stroked his bald pate.

He would have replied in his defence, but lying was beyond his capabilities.

Besides, the commander, who trained relentlessly and watched his diet, was scolding him with the truth.

He was not the fattest—that title belonged to Gregor—but he was hot on his heels.

'It will be dawn anon,' announced Arwel, handing him a steaming mug. 'Let us go and find Owin—what a night he hath had!'

The sight that met them at the great Oak of Brimmon struck terror into their hearts. They leapt from their steeds and, beneath the morning sun, ran with desperate haste. Where the tree, more than five hundred years of age, had once stood, there was now naught but a colossal hole.

They scattered at a trot, crying Owin’s name and hoping to find him alive. Given the devastation wrought by nature’s fury, it was not surprising to think he might be dead, a victim of a fateful destiny for having sought refuge beneath the great oak.

Bartón espied a dilapidated hut in the distance, smoke ascending from its chimney. He pondered for a moment whether Owin might have sought shelter there, but in the rain-soaked grass they espied muddy footprints leading into the woods.

They ventured into the grove and searched the area.

Some of the trees and bushes had suffered the same fate, torn up by the roots, leaving a deep hole in their place.

In his desperation, Bartón was not watching where he was going, so Arwel, with his keen eyesight, saw him suddenly disappear and ran to his aid.

'It would have been lucky if the hole had been wider; then you would have somewhere to put your fat body,' joked Arwel, reaching out a hand to pull him out.

'I am not fat, I am strong,' he grumbled. 'Pull hard, as if you were a warrior. Come on, skinny!'

Bartón took his hand, but the thick, sticky liquid that had clung to his body caused him to slip, and he fell back into the well.

Muttering a hundred insults under his breath, he sought to wipe the slime from himself. Arwel, choking with laughter, beheld his bald head shine brighter than was wont as he beheld his visage contort in a loud retch.

'By Odín’s beard, this sap stinks!' he exclaimed, and another wave of nausea washed over him.

Arwel discovered a trace of the substance clinging to his glove.

He studied it for a few moments, rubbing it between his index finger and thumb before pulling them apart.

He examined how the transparent mass stretched, clinging to his fingers and forming a thin sheet of plasma.

Cautiously, he brought it close to his face whilst fanning with his other hand to push the scent towards his nose, and indeed, the putrid odour penetrated right into his brain.

'By the sharp-edged sharpness of Tyr’s sword!' Arwel exclaimed. 'It is grave.'

He employed a stout log to aid Bartón to his feet, and, treading warily, they surveyed the terrain. Arwel signalled with his arm raised for them to halt, and they both stood within the midst of a clearing where, it seemed, no tree had ever grown.

'That is no sap, comrade—it is a remnant of magic, and a very powerful one. Behold.'

With his index finger, he traced a circle about them: the ground beneath their feet was covered in ash.

'A campfire,' concluded Bartón. 'Owin might have lit it.'

'Tyr, how hast thou permitted this brainless fool to enjoy the supreme honour of belonging to the elite troop?' Arwel pleaded, his eyelids clenched. 'With the storm that hath ravaged the kingdom, are you in earnest?'

'Well, but it could be older,' the bald man corrected himself, perceiving his fair-haired friend’s exasperation.

'And do you deem the wind, fierce enough to uproot trees, would have left the ashes intact in this part of the forest?'

'I see, but how can you be so sure it was magic, and potent magic at that?' he emphasised sarcastically. 'Perhaps, I do not know, someone could have built a fort to surround it.'

Arwel closed his eyes again, extended his index finger once more and pointed ahead. From there, to where the old oak tree used to stand, the adjacent vegetation that had been torn away formed a path and, like a trail, was covered in the viscous plasma.

'It was not Thor’s wrath that rent the trees asunder. Neither was it a whirlwind, but magic—the selfsame magic that shielded the fire and left this trail behind.'

Bartón turned upon his heel and surveyed the area.

He still desired to discover traces of Owin, and, some fifty paces behind them, a peculiar glint upon the grass, upon the opposite side of the path left by the magic, caught his eye.

There, amidst the verdure, they found his sword.

Beside it, fresh footprints in the mire leading towards Old Minister told them that Owin had returned.

'I do not know what could have forced him to leave his sword behind,' Arwel analysed. 'I pray it was not he who conjured such magical power. Tyr knows that the power used here should not be in the hands of any mortal.'

Bartón fell silent and strove to piece things together.

A thought crossed his mind, twisted his stomach and turned his heart on its head, but before he could voice it, the retching was already upon him.

Bent over on his knees, he expelled what remained of his breakfast. He raised his head and beheld Arwel walking away, his hand over his mouth to stay the retching from spreading to him.

'Go on ahead,' said the commander without turning about. 'It will not be hard for me to catch up with you; you have short legs and the agility of a snail.'

Bartón re-entered the wood to regain the path, murmuring complaints beneath his breath.

Arwel, for his part, went straight to a tree that lay upon the ground.

Burned into the bark was a symbol that caught his eye.

He took Owin’s sword and, with delicate strokes, cut into the wood until the figure came away whole.

He scrutinised it closely; it looked familiar.