XVIII – The X marks the spot #2

His daughter’s stoic countenance reminded him of Windar.

She, who had stuck her nose into the kingdom’s treaties, the warriors’ training, and the formal meetings; who had shown she had more than enough spirit to become queen; now seemed not to care about the fate of her people.

How little remained of his little girl in that woman who, coldly, looked at him, and he hesitated to take her with him to Old Minister.

'Mea culpa, I have lost her,' he thought, his eyes glazing over as he recalled the fire he had felt that night when he made the fateful decision to send her away from his side.

'Curious it is, how that which we do not understand may devour the soul,' said the Sage of the North, who seemed to be reading his thoughts. 'Though no more so than this manuscript. One message it hath for the reader—and another for the seeker.'

His wrinkled fingers scanned the surface of Perkolon’s manuscript. They danced from one end to the other, from right to left, from left to right, from top to bottom and vice versa. Narg took advantage of that long pause to try to deduce what underlying message there might be.

'I do not understand,' said Kuopio.

Narg was about to rebuke him for breaking the silence, but the old man clarified:

'The reader ever receiveth that which he beholdeth—in this instance, the words in Leighill that were set down long ago. Whereas others there are that only those who seek the truth may perceive, and these were added but recently.'

'Then it hath been tampered with!' exclaimed Narg, gripping the hilt of his sword.

The old man shook his head and let out a laugh. He understood his desire for all of this to be a lie, and although his power and knowledge did not permit him to see what would come to pass, he had awaited this day his whole life.

'Regret it I do, that the truth leaveth thee with but two paths, King of Móntria.'

Narg’s shoulders slumped forward, his back hunched, his head drooping in defeat. 'Two paths?' he whispered, and the thought of unleashing the darkness or surrendering his life made his knees tremble.

Kuopio sought Maed’s support, but he remained distracted. He wandered the zigzagging aisles and sniffed the spines of the books whilst listening. The feeling of uselessness stigmatised his heart, so he preferred to keep his distance.

'Succumb to the folk who would see thee slain, or trust those who strive for thy cause.

Some have even fallen by the edge of thy blade to defend that which thou knowest not, yet dost profess.

And one of them, I believe, hath left the message to be found at the precise moment—and that moment is now, when the truth is required. '

'Maltón!' exclaimed Narg, his throat tightening. 'What does it say?'

The blind old man cleared his throat and began to dictate. It was Kuopio who took down the words after snatching the pen and notebook from Tobert’s hands.

'Thirty-three, dash, forty-five, dash, twelve, full stop, E, full stop, X.'

The old man fell silent and Kuopio read it back: '33-45-12.E.X'.

'By Odín’s one eye, what in all of Midgard is that supposed to be?!'

Narg’s shout, which echoed throughout the library, disturbed the other elders. They rose, all at once, and, ignoring the king of the empire who stood with one hand on his head apologising for his outburst, they prepared to depart.

Maed, taking long strides, as if ashamed and while shaking his head at the reprimand he was sure to receive for trying to help, approached.

'You had best utter something coherent, or your brother shall weep at your grave,' warned Narg, perceiving his intention.

'It seemeth to be a code.'

'Not even your suspicion has saved you. As soon as we get out of here, I shall enjoy taking your life,' he muttered as he brought his face close to Maed’s and watched the sparkle in his eyes fade.

He had overstepped the mark and realised that his affection for him concealed the fact that he served both as an anchor to the ground and a target for emotional release.

'No, Narg,' quoth he, his eyelids clenched to master his rage and eschew sarcasm, 'what I mean is—aye, it is a code—for it resembleth these ones carved into the wood.'

Narg strode unto the nearest block and studied one of the shelves. With all his heart, he let himself go and embraced Maed tightly.

'That is it, bloodhound,' he whispered in his ear. 'They are the coordinates of a book.'

'From east to west, the first letter; from north to south, the second. The first digit, the section; the second, the shelf; the third, the position,' instructed Milkron.

Kuopio arrayed them and parted the library in twain.

He and Milkron would take the northern blocks of shelves, Narg and Maed the southern ones.

Thus Tobert recorded as he retrieved his notebook, but Celtión, with a simple shake of her head and her hands in her pockets, confirmed she would not be helping.

And without further ado, they set forth in search of the X that marked their destination.

'Ravens, to me!'

Arwel’s summons to the troops, uttered at the top of his voice as he leapt from the top step of the staircase with his sword raised above his head, echoed throughout the castle.

His elite comrades followed him in the van, and behind them arrayed the fifteen Ministerian and Welst soldiers who had joined the alert.

Within the gloom of the ground floor, Arwel halted with his arm uplifted, prepared to give the signal to assail, and perceived behind him how Cheas laboured to restrain Gregor, who, blinded by rage, desired to lash out at his uncle.

Lit only by the bonfire, they found Tregor, Lerg and Cloet standing in the midst of the entrance hall.

Arwel could but assume the worst: they were behind it all and had contrived to persuade Narg to depart the realm so they might seize the crown.

He wondered if it were possible that he had been ambushed and was dead, and raised his head to check that the sands of the hourglass had not turned black.

In a split second, they sensed the shift in temperature even as their muscles, poised to assail, seethed. With every exhalation, a thick mist escaped from their mouths as the metal of their armour began to cool.

Arwel made a flick with his middle and index fingers, and they retreated across the hall, leaving the lords of Welst and the sorcerer in the centre.

Suspicious, and with the fear of betrayal tightening his stomach, he glanced out of the corner of his eye first at Owin and then at Gwion, but, to his relief, both were on their guard and following his orders.

Beside him, Owin appraised the scene. Tregor, with his back turned and his arms clasped behind him, appeared to be gazing into the fire.

Cloet stood beside his father, his hand upon his hip near his sheathed sword, and Lerg, frowning, had his arms crossed over his prominent belly.

None of them seemed to be moving. As an experienced sorcerer, he looked for the signs and found them.

With a nod, he signalled to Arwel that Tregor’s hands seemed to be holding a small purple energy light.

'Release them at once!' Owin shouted.

'Or else, what will you do?' said Tregor, who, still with his back turned, turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. 'Surely, as you fear your own power, they will release the wolf.'

Arwel was about to give the signal to Gwion when a growl came from his position. The elder Gerinson was ready to quench his thirst to annihilate the traitor.

'If I were you, I would not risk that key piece just yet,' added Tregor, who had once again fixed his eyes—hidden by his bushy eyebrows—on the fire.

'Besides, I was but out for a night-time stroll, and here we are, I have found the ravens from the east. A pleasant surprise that they are attending the final feast.'

'A dark sorcerer,' quoth Lerg, who could scarce move his lips. 'Now I understand how they conquered Móntria. Cowards!'

Tregor unclasped his fingers, let his arms fall to his sides, and turned to face the King of Welst.

'You have no right to speak of darkness,' he said, and the flames of the bonfire behind him flared up. 'You filthy scavenger who profited from Narg’s achievements. When our lord is freed, your head shall be the dessert.'

The old sorcerer spread his arms. With his left hand he pointed at Lerg and raised his right above his head.

Between his fingers, perfect spheres of dark energy took shape.

He hurled the first one at the King of Welst, who, screaming and thrashing just a few centimetres above the ground, was striving to free himself from the invisible hand that was strangling him.

The second sphere was quite a spectacle.

Disguised, Bartón, Marzota and Windar crossed the market gate like any villager and, at the insistence of the grandmother queen, made their way towards the garden with the intention of entering the castle through the back gate.

They had reached the centre of the labyrinth when they beheld the violet light streaming from the windows on the first floor of the castle.

Bartón, with a swift, brief dash, took refuge behind Alfredo’s monolith and confirmed the peril.

Around the heart of the maze, at each entrance marking the cardinal points, stood the eight mausoleum statues where the Raven King’s elite squadron rested, and behind two of them the grandmother and the maiden lay hid.

The eternal flame with which Alfredo lit the path shot up into the air and the hundred sparks that were born surrounded the statue.

With his hair standing on end, Bartón raised his head and felt his legs give way as he beheld the eyes of the two rock ravens begin to flicker with sparks.

Twice, thrice, and four times, until in a single burst of light it shot towards the castle.