XIX – Alpha and Omega #2

He recalled the last meeting they had had with the lords of Kerkion, before he had laid claim to the throne.

Old Minister was enduring a rough patch, Narg had not yet passed the test of the ravens that would permit him to be crowned, and the lords who reigned in the north were contriving to have Windar wed one of them so they might usurp the realm.

Under the pressure, he was on the verge of accepting the proposal when his grandmother fixed him with her emerald eyes and said to them: ‘Perhaps after the summer solstice we will have silenced our War Roar.’

War Roar, the name of the legendary ship on which Alfredo’s kin had arrived, were the key words she had taught him so that he might discern, between the lines, that something was amiss. He had taught them to his retinue, and to her he turned.

'If only a War Roar were enough to find the truth.'

Kuopio’s sinews braced as he felt the adrenaline of the alert surge through his frame.

He widened his eyes, clenched his jaw and discreetly turned towards his comrade.

For the first few milliseconds, Maed had felt the same, but he searched within himself for that sensory connection he shared with his king and found no danger.

He was more concerned about how Narg would take what he had to show him, for it might trigger another episode.

He drew a breath and tilted his head so that only Kuopio might see him, and, his eyes slowly returning to normal, he gestured towards the bench.

Without uttering a word, the red-haired man took his king by the shoulder and gently guided him backwards until his knees buckled against the soft cushion, and there he sat.

Frowning, as if in a fit of caprice, he looked at them, disappointed that none of his warriors had understood him.

The five brothers gathered once more in the entrance hall. Side by side, they gazed at the hourglass, which, drop by drop, was bleeding away the time.

Tregor’s words, the magic, Windar’s coldness passed through their minds, and though they were weary, it did not occur to any of them to depart. It would be a long night with Welst soldiers within the castle.

It was Cheas who, hoping to find answers, placed both hands upon Arwel and Owin’s shoulders, and invited all to take refuge within the tavern.

Moreover, the Ubberian soldiers were there; they could make a swift sweep to verify how much intelligence had seeped through the cracks in the castle walls and judge the situation so they would not be taken by surprise.

The early morn greeted them with a cold slap and embraced them in the silence of a kingdom steeped in uncertainty, if not the most intricate of its history.

On the way, Arwel visited the stables to make sure that Bartón’s white horse with black markings was still there, and it was.

They proceeded to the tavern situated upon Kampaily Lane in the first block of buildings.

Before entering, and to ensure they encountered no more trouble than they already had, the commander and Cheas attempted to peer within, but the smudged windows—perfect for concealing what was happening within—prevented them from doing so.

As soon as they entered, some looked up to observe them and others greeted them as they passed. The music of the minstrel with his citola was audible, yet it would allow them to speak.

As they chose a place to sit, Owin’s face crumpled at the sticky sensation of his footsteps upon the damp wood.

They sat down and ordered jugs of mead, save for Owin, who requested water freshly drawn from the well and demanded that the waitress clean the table forthwith, his visage contorted with utter revulsion.

This, coupled with his calm demeanour and his immediate obedience to Cloet’s request, exasperated Arwel.

'Such loyalty—I never saw the like. Whatever you command. A pity not to know if Narg will live long enough to hear of it.'

'And what did you expect?' Cheas defended him. 'That I should draw my sword and kill him? Oh, yes, it did cross my mind to leave a scar on his delicate face, but he carries our king’s blood. Besides, young Munork was only looking after his father and desired to bear him away from the commotion.'

'Upon the throne?' said Gwion, raising his voice. 'Only our king sits there.'

They argued fervently and, though they endeavoured not to draw attention unto themselves, their very presence did so.

They preferred the topic to be Cloet’s conduct and the throne rather than confront the matter that set their insides ablaze.

But after a while they had no choice: Tregor and the likelihood that Narg might release Fenrir.

Gregor instructed them, as ever, that it was impossible for a man to free the beast. That, according to Ragnarok, it would be Loki who would bring about the end of time. And that the whole business was a euphemism for a great evil upon the earth.

'I deem Perkolon but a legend they employ to seize the realm,' quoth Arwel. 'I propose we tarry until Lerg slumbereth and then hold them captive until Narg returneth.'

They argued again. To rise up against Alfredo’s divine blood was undoubtedly the worst counsel the commander had ever contrived. Yet they agreed that, if they detected any military movement, they would obey the order without murmur.

'Do you not find it strange to be here without Maed?' said Cheas, striving to calm their nerves.

'It is an advantage,' quoth Gregor. 'First, he is looking after Narg—and second, had he been here, one of his remarks would surely have sparked a bloodbath with no end in sight.'

Cheas laughed and nodded. The mere memory of his friend lightened his burden. He felt about his chest and, as he drew forth his father’s diary, the necklace with the small stone slipped out. All were stunned: that whitish gem glowed for a few moments as if it were a firefly.

The moment had arrived. After putting it off, Cheas, with the diary upon the table, opened it so that all about him might read it.

Windar entered the throne room, where Welst’s guards were finishing settling their king. Standing in the doorway, she scanned the corridor and confirmed that no elite warriors were lurking about.

Maed, with one hand, lifted the nearest desk and set it before Narg. Then, standing behind it, he called to the young Tobert, who was watching from a distance, not missing a single detail. They did not wish to alarm him, yet they must needs be prepared.

'Dear nephew,' said Windar, and with a gesture signalled to the soldiers to leave them alone.

Maed attempted to lay the volume upon the table between his sovereign’s gloved hands, the cover facing downward. With a snort, Narg cast a glance at him and beheld the last glimmer of silver turning green.

Welst’s soldiers, followed by Cloet, filed out of the hall. Windar watched Lerg hold his head. The lack of oxygen had left him with a hangover-like heaviness.

She turned her back upon him and waited until, as the last one departed, she commanded that no one stand guard at the door.

Narg turned the book over and, like a burning ember, dropped it onto the table.

His heart, beating like a galloping horse, felt as though it would burst from his chest. He drew a breath and, as he read the book’s title over and over again, he focused on what his body was telling him.

He checked the symptoms, but Salvetja’s potion seemed to have cured him.

All around him, four hands rested upon the table.

He cast his eyes up and met Maed’s gaze; the man beheld him with concern.

Yet in response, Narg but raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

He was wholly engrossed in what was written there.

What else could he do but repose trust in the notion that this volume, with its brown cover bearing the word Perkolon in gold lettering, was not his death sentence?

'We need to talk,' said Windar, and closed the doors.

'Let us discover the truth,' said Narg, and opened the book.