XII – Silverback #2

'What hast thou seen, my king?' asked Kuopio, placing a hand upon his shoulder.

In reply, Narg whispered that he had seen nothing and hid his face somewhat deeper in his hands, lest the lie be discerned.

'My dear child,' said Milkron, and tenderly stroked the cheek of Maed, who looked back at him with nostalgia.

With a gesture, he invited him to sit where the king and his companion were.

'The fact that he hath beheld it with his own eyes maketh the task of telling him the truth a little easier, thou stubborn old man,' said the same raspy voice from afar.

Maed scanned the chamber to discern the speaker, and among all the wise elders of the North, with their heads covered, he found one who seemed to be smiling upon them.

At Kuopio’s behest, two servants appeared and ministered unto Narg some water.

'I christened them with their names,' confessed Milkron.

'I never knew their parents, nor is the surname Gerinson theirs; I borrowed it from my old friend Farfal Gerinson, with whom I served here, both of us servants of Curktron.

' Milkron raised his head and looked towards the far end of the room.

'Colquen appeared to me in a dream and asked me to go to the banks of the River Castril,' he said, smiling as the memory came back to him.

'I did so, for one does not ignore legends. '

Maed cast a glance at Kuopio. Then he turned toward Narg and deemed he could hear his tormented thoughts. He had seen it, he had seen himself, and yet he wished it were not true.

'When I arrived, I beheld a gigantic brown bear beside two cubs covered by a red blanket.'

'So what?' Kuopio interrupted. 'I may not possess Gregor’s learning, yet it is well known that beasts bear a stronger protective instinct than men. There exist many tales of fierce creatures that have nurtured abandoned babes.'

'May Odín send my soul to Helheim if I am lying to thee.

' 'The bear—as immense as thou canst imagine—wore a dazzling collar, a perfect circle of white wood carved with an entwined serpent, and in my bewilderment and fear, it looked upon me and cast these words into my mind:' 'I, Colquen, leave Odín’s Wolves in thy care. Look after them until they come to claim them. The light shall shield them; they shall rise as mighty men. They are of vital import for humanity to pursue its course on that night when the raven’s feathers fall and its claws are sharpened.

They must aid in banishing the darkness. The will of Odín, father of all.'

Narg snorted through his nose and began to peer through his fingers. 'All traitors,' he mused. He could not think clearly; his intermittent vision was clouding over and the light of the candles, which bathed the place in saffron, hurt his eyes.

'I gathered them in mine arms, and then a wind enveloped Colquen and he turned to dust before mine eyes,' he recounted, and the gleam in his eyes reflected what he had experienced, as if even now, twenty-five years later, he found it hard to believe.

'I do not know if Gwion is older—I deduced it from his build—nor whether they are brothers, but, my little one, I loved them as if my blood ran through their veins. '

Milkron took Maed’s hand in his and perceived it was cold and rigid.

Frowning, the young wolf searched his mind for a jest, the perfect quip to break the tension.

Amidst his analytical thoughts on what was being revealed to him, he understood why his brother could speak to Tower, and he felt relieved that he was not mad.

'Odín’s Wolf,' he thought, and imagined the look on Cheas’s face when he told him; the pang he felt in his chest brought him what he was looking for.

'My nickname, the Wolf of the Sheets, makes sense,' he said, winking at Narg.

'So, this specimen and his brother are the father’s wolves. I do not believe it; it reeks of conspiracy,' he said, feeling more composed, and straightened up. 'Why is he here if he lives in Cartos?'

'The lodges do not usually leave loose ends. That is why, as soon as they departed, I came to Lepontia in search of refuge,' replied Milkron, but Narg regarded him disapprovingly. 'One winter’s afternoon, when they were nine years of age, a man arrived who was recruiting young folk to form Old Minister’s army. I called to mind Colquen’s words and delivered them up. His name was Pokrak.'

Narg recognised the name Pokrak from the manuscript, and fear gripped him. The fear of betrayal, the one that gnawed at his heels so relentlessly.

He slammed his fist upon the table as he rose and drew his sword. Kuopio knew not why, yet he did the same.

'I am about to have them executed. All of them!' he roared, pointing first at Milkron and then at Maed.

'Well then—if Your Majesty, even after beholding the reflection in the Soul Mirror, still doth not believe it, let us bring the wolf out to play,' quoth the voice from the far end of the library—and from thence, with a subtle whistle in the air, an arrow, invisible to the human eye, flew forth. The next thing heard was Maed’s chair falling backwards.

When Narg reacted, he found his warrior standing before him with his back turned, and he beheld, between his fingers, the arrow that had threatened his life. He heard Maed’s gasping breath and, from behind his shoulder, compelled him to turn round.

'It is true—it is the wolf, and so I…' he stammered, and the migraine was uncontrollable—the throbbing in his forehead, the rumbling of drums in his skull. He shook his head from side to side, but his heart was suffocating him. His knees gave way and he sank into Maed’s arms. Ere consciousness fled, the last sight he beheld was those eyes—silvery, like the reflection, like the wolf’s—illuminating his face.

Gwion leapt backwards and the claw tore away a chunk of his right eyebrow. He looked out at the dusty open-air courtyard. A few metres to his left, another specimen from the mountains roared on two legs, but there was no sign of Tregor. 'Is it one of these beasts?' he thought.

'It is all yours, comrade!' he cried to Owin and cast his sword to him; Owin caught it mid-air to face the second specimen.

He could feel it. That familiar fire, the one that flared up with every blast of the trumpet upon the field of death, was reigniting within him.

With his spirit kindled and his mind clear, he was ready.

He lunged at the beast and, as he leapt, the wind made the cloak upon his back—bearing the raven’s emblem—billow like wings.

With his bare hands he struck straight at the immense head that awaited him with its jaws wide open.

He dodged another blow and wrapped his arms about its neck to choke it. The beast strove to shake him off, but the warrior’s strength waxed with every passing second.

The bear, in desperation, opened its mouth and sank its teeth into his forearm.

It pierced the metal of the armour. Gwion, savage, opened his mouth and bit straight into the jugular.

He pierced the fur. Both, intoxicated by the metallic taste, sank their fangs in a little deeper.

The echo carried the scream. The bear roared. Gwion growled.