XVIII – The X marks the spot #3

Tregor’s silhouette appeared blurred to those dazzled by the purple flash that engulfed them. As they recovered, the crackling of the bonfire, Lerg’s muffled shriek and Cloet’s desperate cries for help echoed off the walls, which began to frost over.

Cheas found himself sitting upon the floor with his sword several metres distant. In his haste to save his king’s cousin’s life, the moment Tregor launched his second assault, he had been cast backward as if he had collided head-on with some invisible barrier.

Bewildered, he felt about upon the floor to retrieve his weapon when, through the swinging door of the kitchen, he beheld it arrive.

The beam of purple light, accompanied by a buzzing as of bees, burst through the gloom and cut across the great dining hall.

As soon as it crossed the archway, it veered at a right angle to the right and, above the fireplace, struck the mechanism holding the hourglass.

Silence. The impact was soundless, and all present fell still.

Cloet swallowed hard; Lerg, his face turning blue, had no breath left to complain.

Even the fire seemed to dim before the play of light emitted by the golden upper disc of the clock as it rotated three positions and, with a crack, instantly, half the sand turned a dark plum colour.

The trumpets from the Lepontia watchtowers announced midnight.

The clamour that shattered the library’s deathly silence hurt all ears, but especially Maed, who, crouching down, covered his ears with both hands.

Amidst the deafening din that reached him muffled, he heard a whisper he could not silence.

At the twelfth note, Pelit opened the library door.

'How glad I am to see thee well again, my lord,' he said to Narg, who was peering out from behind one of the bookshelves. 'These two notes have arrived for thee.'

The king perused the first one and smiled. Kuopio, who had had no luck in his search, was on his way to join them when Maed passed by him and he followed in his footsteps. Mesmerised, he seemed to know exactly where he was heading until he disappeared down the corridor.

'That bastard shall find his rest at my hands,' Narg declared aloud as he perused the second missive, 'I swear it on my sword.'

Bartón’s heart was in his throat. To him, war was a child’s game played by powerful figures who moved their pawns at will.

He did not mind being one of them, not if it meant reaping the glory of being a warrior of the Raven King, but magic and divine manifestations were another matter entirely.

He found it hard to breathe and did not know how to react when Windar’s hand touched his shoulder.

'There is nothing thou canst do here, soldier. Await me in the hut.'

'But my queen. This is magic; it is dangerous.'

Windar shot him an angry glare with her emerald eyes, and the warrior and lover had no choice but to set off again. She made her way towards the castle, but Marzota stood her ground, remaining by the statue of Alfredo.

The tongues of flame from the bonfire rose so high once more that they lit up the entire hall.

Cheas tried to stay Gwion’s course, but his arm remained outstretched as, after his war cry, Gwion leapt towards Tregor.

He crashed into that invisible wall. His body was hurled until it struck the wall, and once on the ground, Gregor rushed to his aid.

Owin knew. The second ball of energy had not been intended to hurt or blind them, but to stay their progress. Determined to use every last gram of energy to break down that barrier, he clasped his hands and began to silently recite the spell he would use.

Tregor beheld this and lifted his voice, which echoed forth with a spectral resonance.

'Narg will unleash Fenrir. It is his destiny. No one can prevent it. They will kneel before us and darkness will reign over humanity.'

Cheas and Gwion exchanged glances and turned together towards Arwel. The most battle-hardened and impulsive of the elite warriors stood frozen, terror in his eyes, as if that declaration had wounded him more than any attack.

Turning a deaf ear, focused on fulfilling his duty, Owin was ready to unleash the energy that was gathering like a storm between his fingers, and he did so.

Owin’s outstretched arm loosed bolts from the palm of his hand as he gritted his teeth. Tregor’s outstretched arm stayed the bolts with the palm of his hand and he laughed heartily.

Little time remained; Lerg had closed his eyes, wearied of struggling against the invisible hand that strangled him, when the outer door swung open.

Tregor cast a sideways glance and beheld her.

Windar, arms crossed and brow furrowed, did watch him from the doorway.

A chill ran down his spine, shattering his concentration.

He shook his head, and Owin’s full-force attack struck his chest. He staggered back several paces, and Cheas seized the moment of vulnerability.

He leapt over the armchair before him to catch his adversary, yet Gregor seized the opportunity to execute the man who had taught him much of what he knew in life.

He bent his elbow and brought his forearm behind his head to grasp the axe, and, without thought or hesitation, hurled it at his uncle.

Tregor spun upon his heel to face his nephew and smiled at him, his left eyebrow raised. Then, everything unfolded as if time had slowed down or the atmosphere around them were a hundred times denser.

The axe flew in tatters, first the blade, then the handle, then the blade and then the handle, cutting through the air with a delicate, almost delightful hum, like the beating of a raven’s wings in mid-flight.

Meanwhile, Lerg fell to the ground unconscious, Cloet turned to help him, and Cheas landed beside Tregor.

The rest followed the axe’s path. The blow would be true, without a doubt, aimed straight at Tregor’s brow, but just as it was about to strike, the dark sorcerer’s physical form became transparent.

He was still there, visible to all, though they could see the light passing through him and see through his body to what lay on the other side, as if he were made of a thin film of matter.

The axe pierced Tregor’s head, cutting through naught, and continued its path towards a new target: Cloet.

Gregor’s entire body betrayed his surprise; his eyes widened, he took a deep breath as his shoulders jerked back.

Cloet, for his part, was petrified as he beheld the axe approach.

His arms felt heavy, his heart pounded loudly, and his thoughts were deafened.

Had he been an experienced soldier, he would surely have managed to dodge or, at the very least, shield himself with his arms, but Cloet was not.

Cheas, two metres from Tregor, squeezed his eyelids shut to avoid witnessing the inevitable as the breeze ruffled his hair. Arwel, who was in the midst, felt a tug upon his shoulder and, as he lost his balance, snapped out of his trance. It was Gwion who, in that split second, leapt upon Cloet.

They rolled across the floor, entwined. First the warrior, then the prince, until they crashed into the wall of the bonfire and the elder Gerinson lay upon the slender heir to Welst.

The axe continued towards a new target that stood in its path. Standing in the midst of the archway, in her pink nightgown, Miar beheld the scene.

Inexplicable. That precise word crossed every mind— inexplicable —and it was fitting for describing the occurrence: the axe hung suspended in the air, its upper tip embedded in Miar’s forehead. A drop of blood trickled down her visage, and as soon as it touched the ground, the axe fell away.

The metallic clang against the cobblestones snapped all from their drowsiness, and time returned to its wonted course. The old woman from Ubberia, with a smile as if she had never felt in danger, touched the deep gash from which blood flowed in endless streams. She was wounded. She was alive.

'Seize him!' Owin cried in desperate entreaty unto Cheas, yet Cheas but opened and shut his hand again and again. It was a strange sensation, not to be able to touch that which his eyes beheld.

Tregor’s raucous, ghostly laughter echoed through every corner of the castle.

'Fools! Puppets of the most perfect plan in history,' he declared, and the illusion of his form, shrouded in thick, dark smoke, vanished.

In Narg’s hands the note, signed by his grandmother and warning him of Lerg’s early arrival, crumpled.

The curses and the copious scatological vocabulary spewed by the king’s voice throughout the library did not rouse Maed from his trance; he only ceased when, before the indicated shelf, the X marked the spot.

'Here it is!'

Maed’s voice silenced all present. He took the volume in his hands—and it was he who fell silent upon beholding what the cover read.

Could Gwion have been right? he wondered, and felt that power welling up within him and coursing through his veins.

He hated what was happening, what was unfolding, what he was feeling.

As if what he held in his hands had forced him to grow up overnight and turned him into the man he refused to be.

'Fate,' he thought, and bit his lower lip furiously.

Why could he not think of the perfect jest?

Why did the wind not whisper the right words to ease the weight crushing his soul?

But it was the scent of incense, wrapped in sweet jasmine, that bore him in thought to Old Minister—where his comrades were, where his dear friend Cheas was, where surely his brother awaited him.

And, resolved to let time flow until his return, with his head bowed to hide his eyes—which had surely turned that lunar grey—he peered out into the main corridor.