XII – Silverback

They ran side by side through the intricate alleyways of Ubberia’s citadel.

Gwion and Owin were at a disadvantage despite their training—the weight of their armour slowed them and betrayed their position, whilst Tregor, cunning, used his knowledge of the nooks and crannies between huts and passageways to his advantage.

The shouts of 'Halt!' rent the realm’s daily tranquillity. They came upon a band of soldiers striving to soothe the overwrought folk who sought refuge, and Gwion, upon the march, commanded them to encompass the market and intercept the fugitive.

Tregor was half a street ahead of them when they saw him turn a corner, and upon arriving, they found a courtyard with a cistern at its centre, clothes hanging on lines in the sun, and three huts—one on each side and, at the entrance, one blocking the way.

They slackened their pace and advanced with steady strides, pricking up their ears. Gwion, certain that Tregor had not cornered himself—the tingling at his fingertips warning of an ambush—was about to send Owin to one of the doors, but remembered he was unarmed.

Without looking at him, Gwion raised his hand above his head, gesturing for Owin to take up position behind him—he had noted a pair of incomplete footprints etched into the sandstone. 'Signs of a run, from the instep to the toe, to speed the movement,' he concluded inwardly.

The trail led them to the door upon their right. A single forceful kick from Gwion sufficed to knock it down, and, behind the thick cloud of dust that formed, they entered. There, in the midst of the dimly lit hall, they found Tregor, hooded and with no weapons in sight.

'Welcome,' quoth he, leaning forward with his arms outstretched at his sides.

'Tregor Bert, you are under arrest upon suspicion of conspiracy against the king and the people of—' recited Gwion in a firm voice, before Tregor’s stifled laughter cut him short.

'Suspect?' he asked, beginning to straighten. 'I am sorry—I underestimated you; after our encounters, you should have been certain.'

Once upright, the momentum sent his hood tumbling back, revealing his wrinkled face, his eyes hidden behind bushy eyebrows.

'It is you!' they exclaimed in unison.

Gwion felt that electrifying chill once more—as he had during the theft of the manuscript—and by instinct, with a guttural roar that rang between his ribs, he lunged at the traitor.

'We need him alive!' Owin bellowed, alarmed.

'That is right, let him go!' Tregor cheered.

Gwion did not comprehend the intent, and permitted himself to be overcome by the voice of his instinct, which urged him to punish the traitor.

He tilted his head and, with his eyes rolled back in their sockets, locked upon his target.

He roared anew and, licking his lips at the taste of revenge, charged at him.

Beside the desk where his king had left him to go and reprimand Maed, Kuopio observed how Narg’s shoulders leaned back as he stood to one side, near to Maed. Moving slowly to avoid the echo of his footsteps, he made his way towards them through one of the book-lined corridors.

'Heijasanam was born alongside Midgard. From the first wound that Odín and his brothers inflicted upon Ymir, the fine drizzle of blood hung suspended in the void.

His final breath—the one that carries the soul—rose like a stellar mantle and froze the blood in its wake.

Thus were forged the crystals of Mhairtum: the hardest material ever created.

From the depths of the library came the old, rasping voice. Hushed by enchantment into a mere whisper, it closed the immense distance between them, and the three Ministerians felt it resonate at the back of their heads as if a secret were being told to them.

'Odín gathered the Mhairtum and, with his own hands, shaped it to form the boundaries around Ymir’s essence.

There it was kept safe, and the great wall of Heijasanam was raised.

Then, together with his brother Vili, they divided it into three.

It is said that when the great end cometh—long after Ragnarok—the parts shall unite to dissolve into nothingness, and the infinite cycle shall begin once more.

Narg shifted his gaze betwixt the image reflected in the mirror and the visage of the young Gerinson, who stood rooted to the spot, his knees tense and his muscles tight.

The silence that deafened Maed’s ears cleared his thoughts, which floated together, one after another, as clear as the reflection in which he gazed, whilst he felt the Soul Mirror whispering a melody from days of old that he seemed to remember.

'They placed one at the gates of Valhalla, that every warrior upon arrival might be freed from the burden of death. Another in Helheim, that the damned might learn from the darkness in their reflection. And the last—before you—that we mortals might not forget the great power a soul holds.'

A few paces distant, Kuopio came to a sudden halt as he gazed upon the red frame, his skin prickling all over.

'Forged from the blood of Ymir,' he thought, and began to make out carved shapes intertwining within the thick moulding. In the upper left corner he discerned runes crowning that which he took to be a butterfly, which in turn appeared to be the head of a man with the body of a tree, mounted thereon. The clear silhouette of the horse had eight legs and stood upon the snout of a beast which, in desperation, extended a claw to grasp the tail of a gigantic serpent. He followed the course of the reptile’s long body across the entire frame, accompanied by backs, feathers and skulls.

Upon reaching the top edge once more, next to the runes, he found the head.

Two wolves were biting it and two ravens were pecking at its eyes whilst, wrapped in its forked tongue, shaped like a seed, lay the world.

Another stinging sensation shook him as he beheld his comrade’s reflection amidst the undulating plasma—and curiosity led him to tilt his head slightly to look over Maed’s shoulder.

He had to close his eyes—not because his reflection frightened him, for he knew his own light and darkness all too well—but because the hole in the midst of his chest bore the name of his betrothed.

Maed had detached himself from reality and did not feel Narg’s hand upon his shoulder.

With his lips parted, he drew in air to savour the scents that reached him, gazing at his reflection as one might contemplate the celebrated work of the world’s finest painter.

An emerald path stretched away to his right, leading to the ivory dome of a castle rising in the distance; to his left, a wooden bridge linked the green paths to the island surrounded by silvery water where he stood.

He recognised himself within the mantle of foam—standing upon the thick root of a white tree, illuminated by a timid moon that dared not compete with the sheen of his coat. The silver-backed figure, neck held high, looked at him. He looked at himself.

He swallowed hard to push down the lump in his throat, and his reflection shuddered.

His leaden fur stirred in the wind which, though invisible, Maed felt brush against his skin.

Humility flooded his breast—and as the feeling clouded his eyes, the wolf raised his muzzle and, inaudibly, howled.

He wept what Maed could not. What his soul was screaming.

'The Soul Mirror is, in every respect, the only thing in this universe that can observe through the eyes and reflect the essence,' concluded the old man, hidden amongst the books.

'Reflect the essence,' thought Narg, and the intrigue of beholding his own overwhelmed him. Just in case, so simply, it might resolve the intricate feeling of darkness that dwelled within him.

He stood behind Maed—and the instant the reflection of his soul began to take shape, something struck his scar and, like a counterweight in free fall, knocked the wind from him.

All went blurry as the fierce pulsing seized his temples.

He shook his head from side to side to still his own voice, which persistently declared that the manuscript was true.

With his visage concealed within his hands, he began to retreat in order to distance himself and stay the visceral urge to shatter the mirror with his fist and so erase the truth.

The echo of erratic heeled footsteps reverberated in Maed’s ears, and the summons of duty struck his breast—the one that linked him to Narg, that warned him of peril—snatching him from his stupor.

Kuopio hastened to overtake his king, who was slowly collapsing, but it was a grey-haired man, without a tunic and with his face uncovered, who held him in his arms.

'Milkron!' Maed cried out upon being reunited with the man who had raised him.

'Blessed be to see you grown into a man, boy,' he replied as, together with Kuopio, they sat Narg down upon a bench.

The redhead stood beside his king, who was clutching his head and breathing in short gasps to master his nausea. The wise old man from the north who had been using the desk picked up the books and withdrew without a word.

Straight, at the level of his right ear, with the tip pointing forward and the hilt gripped tightly, Gwion threatened Tregor with his sword. Between the fingers of his left hand, he crumpled the collar of his cassock whilst pushing him with his elbow pressed into his sternum.

Tregor smiled defiantly. He relished seeing the look of shock upon Gwion’s countenance.

'I shall surrender,' he whispered in his ear, and Gwion was on the verge of halting his assault, 'but first you must overcome my two companions.'

They crashed into the adobe wall, which could not withstand the impact and crumbled.

Gwion clung to Tregor’s neck to prevent him from escaping in the fall.

They rolled, one upon the other, tumbling across the dusty backyard.

As he regained his composure, Gwion felt the hot, foul breath of a gigantic grey bear dampening his face.