XXII – Prayer in the night

The silver ravens circled about the index fingers of Kuopio, Maed and Narg as Milkron’s voice faded away with the book’s final words. A perpetual silence reigned over the library. It was the blind old man, who, guided by his hands, walked amongst the desks, who dared to break it.

'The path to truth is like dominoes. One after another they fall until the last one ignites the spark of hope.'

'Which guides us to follow the light that awaits us at the end of the tunnel,' continued Milkron, who stepped forward to offer himself as a guide.

'Where we come to understand the purpose of our soul,' said Tobert, finishing the proverb.

The three scholars of knowledge had just recited the words that Santiana, one of the warriors of Alfredo’s royal guard, had spoken before throwing herself into the final battle.

It was on the mountaintop where the cemetery of Ubberia now stood.

There, on the edge of the sea that Alfredo had named after her after failing to find her body, alluding to the fact that Odín had descended to collect his heroine.

'There is only darkness left in my path,' whispered Narg.

Maed’s eyes darted about, desperate to find an escape. Like an innocent child, he yearned to flee, in mind and body, from that predicament.

Kuopio’s thoughts leapt from one place to another and to none in particular as he fiddled with the clasp of his cloak, fastening and unfastening it.

He desired to find the words that would help Narg carry on.

He did not fear that his king was evil incarnate, but rather the memory of the sadness in his gait when it came to Maltón.

That revealed truth would surely crush the strong man, with the warm heart, who hated to be wrong.

Yet none of them—not even Pelit, who understood but little of what was transpiring, nor Celtión, who hastily closed the book and held it in her arms—dared to look the king of the empire in the eye.

With his head bowed, the strands of grey hair falling across his face hid his glazed eyes, whilst his wrinkled lips struggled to hold back the desperate cry rising from his gut.

'My dear Maltón, how could I have been so blind?'

'Cheas,' whispered Maed, clutching his heart. How much pain would he feel when he found out?

Kuopio, Milkron and Pelit began to hurl questions and conjectures into the air, seeking to discern how Halfdan, a sorcerer, had ended up upon the throne and with the manuscript in his possession.

'He tried to avoid the empire,' said Milkron.

'I do not think so. He sold himself for a good price and ended up conspiring with the darkness.'

'And you, Kuopio, for how much would you betray Narg?' Maed burst out, exasperated.

'May Woden take you with him!' he cried, smiting the table with his fist, and, with fury in his eyes, sprang at him, only to be stayed by Narg’s faltering voice.

'Cel… Seidrín, consecrate Santiana. Purify the steel stained with so much innocent blood, that it may be the kiss of her blade which ends me.'

He drew his sword, placed it in his daughter’s hands, and turned towards the door.

'Let my blood water the soil of the kingdom where I was born. Pray that Odín forgives my failings; I never shall.'

The blade in the priestess’s hands glowed as Maed, in a fit of helpless rage, snatched it from her and went after his king.

Narg heard the swish of the cloak, the clash of metal, and, before turning, felt the palm of the young Gerinson’s hand strike between his shoulder blades.

Off balance, he took two steps to avoid falling, whilst Maed, seizing his arm, forced him to turn.

'Martyrs do not win wars, and we must set out for the most important one in history that awaits us in our kingdom,' he said, frowning as he held out his sword.

'I cannot return. It must be this night, beneath this moon. Hear my plea, Maed. Do your duty. It is an order.'

The warrior froze as Narg’s hand took his and brought the blade of Santiana towards his chest.

'How many more proofs do you require?' he said, perceiving that he did not react. 'That blonde woman, with green eyes, with blood upon her cheek, is Windar!!' he shouted until his throat gave way and, with it, his tears.

His hands did tremble. The rage he felt reminded him of what he feared most: himself.

'Right, I have rid us of the lackeys and I have the feather.'

He unfolded the bloodstained white handkerchief he had been concealing within his fist. He displayed to them the trophy: the finger Lerg had given him as proof of loyalty so he would let him sit upon the throne.

'We lack the wolf’s claw and the loyal one’s hide,' said Bolet.

'Now that you mention it, that shall be your task.'

With a contented smile, he turned from the muttering Bolet and advanced toward the corner where Pokrak sat upon a heap of rubble.

At his feet lay the breastplate and armguard he had removed because of the keen smart of his wound.

Between grunts, he berated himself for the fifth time for having charged at Tros without his armour the previous morning, though he supposed that otherwise they would have caught him.

Sitting beside him, Windar spread a scrap of cloth upon her lap and laid Pokrak’s right arm thereon.

The cut was deep, and a golden light emanated from the bone whilst an intense stinging sensation seemed to make his blood boil.

Bolet, the most skilled of them in the practice of medicine, had been unable to seal it.

Maltón’s apprentice librarian had taken it upon himself to expose him as the attacker by marking him so that the wound would glow in the presence of another Naamclënt.

They knew this, but there was nothing they could do to hide it.

'We must be aligned,' she told him as she wound the bandage. 'Narg will see Lerg on his throne; then the first raven will fall and he will awaken. Thou must see to bringing him here.'

'We cannot do it here, Windar,' said Pokrak, lifting his head towards the oval dome above them. 'As soon as the rift opens and folk begin to die, the realm shall be in chaos. It is not safe.'

'The truth does not weigh upon thee,' she agreed, and, having finished covering his wound, stood up. 'We shall do it in the cabin where I left the cup.'

'But you have sent the bald man there,' protested Bolet.

'All the more reason. He shall serve as our punching bag for taming the beast.'

For every objection, Windar, with enviable confidence, had the perfect answer or remedy. She moved energetically and with such a calm demeanour that it unnerved her companions. Pokrak, whilst adjusting the buckle on his breastplate, looked at Marzota, who returned the gesture with a shrug.

'Marzota,' called the grandmother queen, 'Tregor and I shall deal with the ravens and wolves; thou shalt be responsible for unleashing the plague as soon as it awakens.'

She strode toward her and placed a clear glass sphere within her hands, wherein a tongue of fire floated at the centre.

'With the final phrase of the spell, cast the Everflame. We shall use the light from every corner of Móntria as a guide to unleash the darkness. Has everyone drunk the potion?'

The three nodded, their faces wrinkling as they recalled the sour taste of the foul concoction that would protect them from the evil they planned to unleash.

Well pleased, Windar turned and made for the altar. She raised the sword with its golden hilt and black blade and set it beside a mound of offerings. Beside it, upon a silver tray, the severed head lay with its eyes closed, and she gently stroked its cheek.

'Will you wake him?' asked Marzota at her right hand as she mixed the ingredients she would use in the spell.

'Nay, I shall let him sleep somewhat longer; he needs to husband his strength.'

'How can you not be nervous?' asked her elderly maid. 'We have been waiting forty years for this moment.'

'That is precisely why we have been planning it for forty years. Everything shall be perfect. And if it fails, the escape route is on its way,' she answered, taking up the head before stepping away.

'I do not understand—how did you find the nerve to invite him?'

The tone in which Marzota addressed her sounded more like a reproach than a question. Annoyed, and still with her back turned, she looked over her shoulder at her to reply.

'I would remind ye that it was your idea that we keep it. It is as much a part of this as we are.'

She shifted aside a reading chair adorned with countless symbols and carved flowers belonging to an ancient dynasty.

She took a woven blanket, sat down and spread it across her lap whilst cradling her head between her breasts.

She was about to take her ease when she espied the three of them regarding her.

'Fear not, it shall not prove dangerous. As soon as I am done, we shall use the stone and humanity shall be healed.'

Pokrak, as weary as she was, had but just removed his armour when Windar, ere closing her eyes, gave him an order.

'Bear the gear for forging the belt unto the hut. Do not forget the sword, and see that the bald one be there. I do not desire him to linger about the castle; he hath that damned habit of ever speaking the truth.'

Kuopio stepped between them and looked straight into his king’s blue eyes.

'Milord, thou art not the key to the portal of darkness.'

'And what if I were?' Celtión’s voice, firm yet childlike, paralysed them.

Maed took two strides towards her and looked her straight in the face, as close as he could.

'If I were what?' he snapped at her.

'When in doubt, it is right to give one’s life to save one’s people; that is what a good leader would do.'

'That is my girl, the future queen of Móntria,' said Narg, pushing Maed aside to stand face to face with Celtión.

With her head bowed, she looked at him over the top of her hood. They gazed at each other, silently, intently, as they had not done for five years.