XXI – Compendium of a Legend

By the dim light of a candelabrum in the damp tavern on Kampaily Street, with their mugs brimming with mead warmer than their hearts, Cheas, Arwel, Gwion, Gregor and Owin began to read:

'Even as my master hath taught me, that which is not written is doomed to oblivion. No man is great enough to be remembered for eternity, nor is any eternity powerful enough to forget the truth.

I have devoted half my life to finding the bearer of the dark half-soul that shall destroy humanity, and I have accepted that, perhaps, it is inevitable.

In that case, discovering a cure shall be meritorious, because, as my mentor hath taught me, hope is lost only in death.

There must be a light that overcomes the darkness.

Ever since Odín created the earth, evil hath sought to dominate or destroy it. We have an expiry date. Like everything else, we are born and at some point we must die, but not if it is in my power to prevent it. Not without a fight first.

For this reason, and behind the back of my king, whom I admire with all my being, I have divided my task: to track down those responsible who operate in the shadows and, on the other hand, if nothing can be done to prevent it, to find a way to fight and survive.

I learnt this from my beloved Cheas. My strong boy, who hath managed to rebuild himself, with his perfect innocence, hath taught me that when we are defeated, it is our duty to get back up to overcome adversity.

I had never seen him so frustrated and hopeful at the same time as when he was turned away from the training for young warriors.

When he told me: 'I will make it; I will train day and night.

Not only will I pass the next test, but I will be the best', I realised that there is always a chance for redemption.

Here I shall record whatsoever I find. I ask Odín for his blessing and Narg for his forgiveness for acting in the shadows of his trust.'

Those were the words, in black ink, that the book of the ancient sorcerer of Old Minister preserved.

At first glance it was a compendium of information that Maltón had gathered from his clues, hypotheses and legends.

It was an easy read, though they grew frustrated when, from time to time, they came across notes where he clarified that that line of thought had led him nowhere.

Halfway through the volume, give or take a page, they discovered a passage that left them dumbfounded. During a bonfire in honour of Tyr near the spring equinox, Gregor had recounted the legend of how the god lost his hand. Yet Maltón had uncovered details unknown to the bards.

'It was then that Tyr, god of war, being the bravest of Odín’s sons, approached the beast and wrapped Gleipnir’s rope—forged by the dwarves with magical ingredients—around its neck.

Fenrir, seeing that it was impossible to break free, closed his jaws and devoured Tyr’s hand, which he held in his mouth.

As soon as the blood from the severed arm touched the tongue of the gigantic beast, it numbed him and unwittingly created a protection that prevented him from continuing to grow out of all proportion. Fenrir was then imprisoned in Asgard.

Mindful of the imminent doom that creature would bring upon their father, and observing the effect of his blood, Odín’s three sons, in a desperate attempt to postpone the fateful end, resolved to act.

Upon the summit of Mount Lyfjaberg, the mountain of healing, with the aid of Menglöö, they wrought two sapphires.

One was blue and oval-shaped, the other red and circular.

Then Tyr bestowed a half-soul that flowed through his blood, into which they immersed the sapphires.

The god, enfeebled, was tended by the giantess until he awoke.

His brothers went to Brok. In his forge, he melted down Tyr’s war sword and, using its sacred golden metal, fashioned two objects.

The first was a cup into the base of which they set the blue sapphire; they then immersed it in the waters of Mimir’s spring so that whoever drank from it might foresee their destiny.

To the remaining metal they added the selfsame ingredients found in Gleipnir’s rope.

Thus they fashioned a dagger into which they set the crimson gem in its hilt and engraved a spell upon its blade so that it might never miss its mark; these words they did conceal, that they might be revealed only when anointed with blood of Asgard.

When they had thus accomplished their toil, the three assembled at the foot of the rainbow bridge and hurled the artefacts toward Midgard, that they might lie concealed until the hour of need.

But Odín discovered their deed, and, being enraged by his sons’ presumption to bend Fate, took one quarter of the vigour of Tyr’s soul from each sapphire and restored it unto his body.

'Your punishment shall be to watch me die, and until I decide otherwise, you shall never set foot in Midgard again.'

Such was the punishment meted out to Tyr; the punishment of his brothers, another legend doth tell.'

Arwel, a devotee of Tyr, felt a special joy in his soul. He would give his life to be the worthy bearer of that dagger and fight by his side. And with that thought, he rose to approach the bar and took the empty mugs with him on the pretext of ordering another round.

'Cile, have you heard anything of Bartón? Have you seen him?' he asked the barmaid as he handed her a copper coin.

His friend’s whereabouts kept him on tenterhooks. He would rather hear that he was passed out amidst the straw and a woman’s skirts than bear the weight upon his conscience of him being wounded.

Gwion took advantage of the pause and felt his chest in search of the letter.

He stopped. Heart, mind and breath. It was not there.

A tremendous itch, punctuated by stinging, made itself felt where the bandage covered the bear bite.

He scratched hard and continuously whilst in his thoughts he tried to retrace what he had experienced.

When Arwel’s order was ready, he returned to his comrades. The negative response left him with a sad expression and a bitter taste in his throat.

'If Bartón hath not returned by tomorrow night, I beseech you to aid me in preparing a fitting resting place for him in the forest where we may honour his memory,' said Arwel, and began to refill the glasses.

'You have a flair for tragedy,' Owin chided him. 'He will have wandered into some nearby village, no more. When I return to my chambers, I shall send a raven to every lord to ask if they have seen him,' he said, extending his glass, more relaxed now and glad to drink alongside his comrades.

Before continuing with the reading, Gregor moved to sit next to Cheas. If what he suspected was true, he desired to be in the front row.

'The Gerinson brothers might be Odín’s Wolves. They arrived in the realm alongside a soldier from Korkolat. Perchance he is the man my master prophesied would take them in.

They have been ruled out, and yet I still regret counting Narg among my suspects. His eyes, his very essence—it is impossible for him to be one; I know it, I can sense it. Moreover, it would be inconceivable for the blood of the raven to be tainted by such darkness.

Kuopio and Pelit, who have become very close friends with Narg, are the same age.

It could be one of them. And then there is Owin, my ward, for whom I can find no record of his family.

I asked him his age, though I believe he hath lied to me and made himself out to be older to gain my respect.

Even with his struggles to conjure for the light, he is a warm, curious young man, always willing to help. '

Arwel finished his perusal ere the rest and cast a glance toward Owin. Yet the royal sorcerer, in his eagerness to master the hurricane of questions that assailed him and to dodge the sky-blue daggers with which the commander pierced him, did not remove his eyes from the volume.

'Perhaps the golden cup of the myth is the one that Tyr, in person, and just as he always remembered it, granted to my master. It seems it was true, though, if Odín prevented him from descending to earth, how did he manage to hand it over?

I hypothesise that the Worlds-Walker holds some answer.

It is a legend, yet it is said that to the northeast, in the lands of Tloston, upon the shores of the Écolas Sea, there dwells a sorcerer who knoweth a passage to Asgard.

Perhaps that is how he obtained it. I shall pursue this lead, which is somewhat more concrete than the footprint in the forest and the aurora above the castle.

I leave here a question I hope to answer sooner rather than later: where is the dagger? Or, better still, if it is already in Midgard, who hath it?'

The honey in Cheas’s eyes reflected his excitement and, as he glanced sideways at Gregor’s hopeful smile beside him, he turned the page.

'At last I have found it; I hold Tyr’s dagger in my hands. Yet an unforeseen thing hath come to pass: the sapphire came loose as it tumbled down the Bifröst. It would be futile to try to fuse them.

Only the descendants of Asgard can unite them; those were the words the wind whispered in my ear.'

Cheas folded the tip of the page and closed the book. Before his comrades might raise objection, he drew his dagger from his forearm. He held it up to the candlelight and, with one finger on the tip and another on the hilt, spun it in a spiral.

'Here!' quoth Arwel, pointing his index finger at the hilt. 'A circular crimson sapphire —it could be seated here.'

They turned towards Gwion, and Cheas held out his hand.

'Will you lend me a drop of your blood?'

He was still scratching his forearm with the bandage half-way off when Gwion glanced sideways at Owin, but he had been as distracted by the reading as Owin himself; worried about the whereabouts of the letter, he paid no attention.

He just desired to depart, to hasten up the stairs to the meeting room and retrieve it.