XIV –Lightning Plasma

With his chin dripping with blood and the echo of a growl resonating in his throat amidst his ragged breathing, Gwion turned his head. Facing the panting jaws of the bear, he bared his clenched teeth and stared him down.

The blue sparks of stellar lightning in Gwion’s eyes illuminated the bear’s muzzle, and, with the desperation of knowing he would die, he sank his teeth a little deeper into the forearm.

Just as on that night in Ubberia, Gwion found the strength he needed.

He used his legs to gain momentum to leap over the bear’s head and wrapped his arms around its neck.

With a prolonged roar that rivalled the bellowing of his victim, who was writhing to break free, he pressed him against his chest. Sharply. Once. Twice. The crackling of breaking bones—and the warmth of the last breath in his hands—gave him the signal. He had succeeded.

Agitated, he found his vision blurred and his arm stinging, yet he brushed the hair from his face and turned towards Owin. The latter retreated at the same pace as the second beast, standing upright and three times his height, advanced toward him.

With a gesture, Owin signalled for him not to come to his rescue, and he halted.

He set one foot before the other, as if standing upon a slender invisible cord, and shut his eyes.

A sensation of electricity began to run from his calves up to his chest, and he concentrated upon controlling the energy that was surging within each of his cells, lest what had befallen the night before recur.

A sound rising from the depths of his throat, his chest, his very core, escaped through his mouth, and then he opened his eyes.

The animal began to lower itself until it was kneeling before him.

And so, docile and motionless, it surrendered as Owin, wielding his comrade’s sword, drove the point through its skull with one clean thrust, precise as a hand threading a needle.

Gwion raised his eyebrows and, as the trail of indigo energy around Owin faded, wondered why he had not mentioned that ability to him before.

But far from fretting, he felt relief; he no longer felt strange or alone—there was someone else, someone he considered his friend, who possessed the ability to speak with beasts.

'There is no doubt you are Odín’s Wolf. Who else could slay a mountain bear with bare hands and depart with naught but a split eyebrow?' quoth Owin as he stepped forward to assist him to his feet.

'How did you manage to make such a beast kneel before you?' he said as he caught his breath and examined the animal, taking care not to step in the spilled blood.

'I convinced him,' he replied after a pause, noting the excitement in Gwion’s gaze as his brown eyes returned.

'You can talk to beasts as well!'

'I do not talk to them,' he corrected, holding forth his hand that Gwion might behold the energy between his fingers. 'I command them!'

He should have kept silent. For all he knew, the nature of that power was surely wrong—and it was not what he had done to the beast that unsettled him, but the submission he had achieved.

He did remember the many times Maltón had reprimanded Owin for using it, but what could he say, when with life at stake the rules become blurred.

'We must pursue Tregor,' said Owin as he wiped his hands.

'There is no need; I am a man of my word,' he said from behind him, sitting upon the carcass of the suffocated beast.

Gwion wrenched the sword from the bear’s head and advanced upon him, keeping the point directed at his foe the whole while.

He maintained his distance, yet pressed the blade into his neck and ceased only when he beheld blood flowing.

He was dizzy, his vision was blurred, and he had not yet even realised when the Battle of Ubberia had ended; moreover, his blood was boiling, crying out for vengeance.

He yearned to slay the wizard right then, without mercy, yet Owin’s hand upon the blade itself stayed him.

Using a worn rope they had taken from certain wooden barrels near the hut, they bound his hands and, jostling him along, bore the old sorcerer—his comrade’s uncle—unto the castle.

Six men, among them Milkron, Kuopio and Maed, bore Narg’s senseless body through the corridors unto the chamber. At the far end, a woman, robed in black velvet, awaited them.

'Celtión!' Maed exclaimed, recognising her.

'Seidrín, I am the priestess Seidrín,' she corrected him without a single flicker of emotion upon her countenance. 'Come, you may let him rest here.'

The widow awaited them upon the castle steps.

She was garbed in a black gown with small gems sewn to match, and a veil covering her head and part of her visage down to the nose.

She was in mourning for her husband, but Gwion, upon beholding her, wished his eyes would be gouged out.

That dress, with a corset at the top, cinched her waist and lifted her breasts.

The lady’s horse was ready, but the Ministerian warriors waited in the courtyard for Valcon and a fresh steed to be arrayed to bear Tregor.

'We have not done too badly,' quoth Gwion, optimistically, despite sitting there like a patient whilst a healer cleansed his wound. 'Two prisoners, one political and one of war.'

'I trust our king shall have equal fortune. I shall dispatch him a missive ere we depart.'

'Narg is right, Hugnork has been blessed. Truth and justice prevail.'

Hearing this, Tregor burst into mocking laughter, at which Gwion, who was still battling the almost organic urge to take his life, stood up and with a blow split his lip and knocked out a tooth.

Doubled over, he spat blood when, with a shove, Owin sat him down upon a bench and then gagged him.

Any word that came out of his mouth would put the kingdom at risk.

Several guards, both Ubberian and Ministerian, surrounded them to demand an explanation as to why Tregor Bert, a former soldier of Halfdan, was a prisoner.

To keep the manuscript a secret, Owin chose his words with care, without lying.

'Tregor is suspected of treason and of using forbidden magic that endangered the people of Ubberia.

Our king shall interrogate him and deliver the verdict that best serves the welfare of all Móntria. '

Yet they were not content; Tregor was a beloved Ubberian, born and bred in the realm, who, after retiring from the front lines, had trained many young folk.

Owin eschewed further strife and took the most diplomatic course of action possible: he proposed that they choose ten delegates to accompany them and ensure that the elderly mage received a fair trial.

Moreover, the additional men would prove useful should any unforeseen events arise upon the return journey.

Among the Ubberians deliberating, a small boy, about seven years of age, pushed his way through.

He dodged the black-handled swords, parted the cloaks to slip between them, and stopped before Gwion.

With his visage smudged with dirt and a bit of snot stuck to his upper lip and nose, he smiled at him.

Narg’s soldier, sitting upon the bench whilst being tended to, looked upon the child distantly; he was not at ease amongst creatures, least of all if they looked and smelled like that little lad.

But the mischief in his eyes reminded him of Maed, so he reached out and ruffled his hair.

Amused, whilst laughing with a distinctive and infectious chuckle, he handed him an envelope.

With a simple gesture, he asked if it was for him, and with another, he thanked him. How could he explain that he did not dwell in that realm and that no one could have written to him?

The lad bowed his head and ran off down one of the narrow corridors.

His innocence made him smile until his fingertips brushed against the seal that closed the envelope.

He did not need to see him for his heart to react with a thud that squeezed his stomach.

He lowered his head slightly so as not to disturb the healing and stroked the reddish wax seal.

The healer finished tying the bandage about his head and, convinced she had been too rough, gently held a cloth to his face to wipe away the tear falling from his right eye. Then Gwion lifted his head and looked at her.

'Celtión!' he exclaimed, but hearing her voice alone was enough to tell him she was not his beloved princess.

The lingering adrenaline in his veins and the letter in his hands had caused him to hallucinate.

Owin, whilst keeping watch over Tregor, finished writing the note and was about to cast the locating spell so that Narg would receive it wherever he was. He looked up and, though he did not know why, he noted the change in his comrade’s countenance.

Gwion, his hands trembling, carefully broke the seal, taking care not to tear it. A C intertwined with an H was undoubtedly the royal seal of Narg’s daughter. The letter contained a few paragraphs in which he recognised her handwriting. Sadness managed to overshadow the fire of vengeance.

He perused it diligently, and perused it yet again ere he crumpled it within his fist. He sensed nothingness, as though his soul had forsaken his body.

He searched within himself for pain, sorrow, joy, frustration, fear, or resentment—nothing at all.

He thought of Narg, of the speech he had given them before setting forth for Lepontia, of the lie, of the betrayal, and yet, nothing.

He thought of Maed, his beloved brother, and then, fire.

He rose with an energy welling up from his very core.

Although he had always hoped to see Celtión again, he had also grown accustomed to the idea of dying alone.

And he realised that neither she nor Narg was as special to him as his brother.

He had no doubt: Maed was both his weakness and his strength.

As he drew near Owin, he beheld the instant when a raven, clutching a piece of paper in its talons, took wing.

'Command it to return,' he said, watching the bird fly away with a look of despair upon his visage.

'Hush!' Owin chided him, placing his index finger to his lips. 'It is our secret. If the weather holds, it shall find Narg, who shall receive the message by tonight.'

'What did the note say?' he asked, cracking his knuckles.

' We have captured Tregor in Ubberia. We return home with both prisoners. O.F. Why so worried? I have been writing since ere you took your first steps.'

Gwion pressed his lips tightly together to stifle the desperate cry that threatened to escape, and violently placed his hand upon Owin’s breast to make him take the letter.

'Gwion. Thou must stop my father. There is a lodge in the shadows that hath been preparing Fenrir’s release since the dawn of time. Windar is part of it—she hath manipulated us, including thee and Maed. My husband, Frey, hath revealed to me that ye are Geri and Freki, Odín’s Wolves.

'Protect Owin with thy life. He is the only one who can stay the sorcery Narg hath wrought. He hath come to Lepontia; he purposes to loose the beast to master it and become invincible.

'But he requireth one wolf to sacrifice the other. The same holdeth for two ravens. He needeth the claw and the feather bathed in their own blood. I have seen it—he shall use his power upon Maed to dominate him and make him end thy life. Windar—she shall murder Lerg.

'When the hour is upon us, we shall meet again. Remember that ours is a pact of blood and tears that none can erase. Love doth not end—it is borne to the grave. When this is done, we shall at last be together.

'Celtión.'