XXIII – The Stone of Destiny #2

The old woman slipped Cheas’s cloak from her shoulders, draped it over her knees to cover her crotch, and lifted her dress.

A cross-shaped scar, wider than it was long, was visible on her lower abdomen.

Halfdan had managed to save her, but they were left with a bitter taste: she would never be able to conceive; the arrow had torn her womb.

The king, aware that no one would desire to wed his infertile daughter and apprehensive that she might flee once more, granted them his blessing. When summer returned, they were espoused.

'From the moment we exchanged our vows, I ceased to be Princess Miar and became the wife of Halfdan the Brilliant. I do not think any soul in Ubberia remembers my name anymore. Though it pains me now to be his widow. You have no idea how much I miss him.'

A moment of silence fell over the chamber.

All that could be heard was the deep breathing of Gwion, who was slumbering with his head resting upon Owin’s shoulder, and Arwel’s desperate snorts.

Until Miar smoothed her raiment, wrapped herself once more in the red cloak, and leaned forward to regard her two companions.

'Enough of this melancholy; I shall see him soon. Now, regarding Perkolon’s manuscript .'

Ever since the arrow that had wounded Miar bore the Ministerian colours, when Halfdan ascended the throne, he swore never to set foot in the kingdom again.

'With Maltón, they had resumed the investigation, but he could do little to help with the scant time he had between decrees and meetings, formal receptions and more meetings and events and tournaments, and, and, and.

The crown did not suit him at all, but I believe no one could have tried as hard or done better than he did.

I reproached him for only one thing in our lifetime, and I only understood it upon his death, when I read the manuscript. '

During the years they had ruled, Ubberia endured several periods of extreme drought in which they lost crops and livestock.

Halfdan applied all his magical knowledge to counteract the effect of what he claimed was the darkness seeking to overthrow him.

The people grew ever hungrier, yet he repeatedly refused to sign the treaty with Narg.

As if it were a secret, Miar leaned towards Cheas and Gregor and continued her tale almost in a whisper, whilst scanning the chamber.

'When I read the manuscript, I realised it was his attempt to prevent the empire from being forged.

He died for revealing the truth, just like Maltón.

For, you know, I do not think he went mad; he just was not prepared for what he discovered,' she told them as she drew from her neckline a piece of paper folded into eight parts, so small it fit in the palm of her hand.

On the very afternoon that Narg passed sentence upon Maltón, the brown and grey raven belonging to the sorcerer arrived in Ubberia bearing an old papyrus and a note. Halfdan had ensured that no one else read it, not even her.

The note lay spread out in Cheas’s hands as he strained to make out the faint light of the early morning moon streaming through the loft’s skylight.

According to it, thanks to Halfdan’s spell, he had found Colquen’s golden cup.

Along with it was the papyrus, and he asked her to find a way to alert Narg about Perkolon so that he might go and seek him out.

'I must admit that my Halfdan was rather stubborn.

I am sure that resentment and mistrust prevented him from finding the right moment, but I can swear he was no man of arms; he hated war.

That is why it took me by surprise when he decided to attack Old Minister upon returning from a meeting with Jorlaft and a third party he would not reveal to me. '

Without any forewarning, and with naught of moment having transpired, upon a common day, a secret envoy arrived in Ubberia and requested an urgent audience with the king.

In private conference, Halfdan and Miar heard the disquieting tidings that what was written in the manuscript would anon come to pass, and he was entreated to repair to Wolest. When he returned, accompanied by the troops of the Kingdom of Tloston, and despite Miar’s admonitions, the siege commenced.

'Before he left for the front, he told me where he kept it and, if he died, to follow the instinct he had taught me to listen to. That is why I asked Narg to send me proof that I was worthy of the knowledge: a sign of humility with a secret that no one else knew.'

She knew many of the tales Maltón had told her, so it was easy for her to discover the truth in that letter delivered by Gwion. He confessed to her, without beating about the bush, that he, with Maltón’s help, had been able to pass the test of the ravens and claim his throne.

'You can imagine how pleased I was that he admitted it,' she said, laughing behind her hand. 'But read the back of the note; I think it is the last thing Maltón managed to discover.'

'When the shadow looms over the earth. No man shall be able to defeat him; only Perkolon—with the stone of Jotunheim, with the sapphire of Tyr, with Gleipnir’s rope. Bathed in his blood, he shall sleep in Asgard.'

Celtión was right. Maltón kept secret, even knowing he was going to die, the story of how they met and the event that drove Narg to claim his right to the throne.

By the time he turned fourteen, Narg had become a war machine.

Trained by Commander Ralf Kolins, he practised diligently every day, and there was no cadet or soldier who could match him.

He had even developed his own fighting technique, precise in attack and with an impenetrable, solid defence.

By reason of his slender frame he enjoyed enviable agility, and by virtue of his refined reflexes he seemed to read his opponents’ movements ere they themselves acted.

They that beheld him in battle suggested that Alfredo had been reincarnated in him to unite the peoples.

Two years later he was the undisputed champion of every contest and tournament that came his way, and yet a recurring nightmare overshadowed his nights and clouded his days.

He dreamt that ravens were devouring him alive.

He felt their sharp beaks tearing at his flesh whilst his eyes were blinded by the intense pain of being gouged out.

And so, for months, drenched in sweat, he would wake in a state of agitation.

He had been unable to tell anyone of his night terrors. There was no one who was a good enough confidant to whom he might reveal his greatest secret, for if the blood of Alfredo himself ran through his veins, how could it be possible that he feared ravens?

By day, whenever a murder of ravens wheeled above the training ground, Narg would freeze; on such rare occasions he would lose a contest. Even now he could not forget the two occasions when, out of dread of being assailed, he could not contain his panic or the urine that soaked his trousers.

Time was running out in the shadow of his father, who, at the age of fifteen, had surpassed that feat by proving himself worthy; and Narg had managed to sidestep the matter at every meeting with the lords and the regent queen until he turned sixteen.

He emerged from the last meeting intimidated by his grandmother, who, to spur him on, set him a deadline: the summer solstice.

It was not that Windar was incapable of ruling, but her moment had passed and the clock remained blackened following Renger’s death.

'The birth of the sun will illuminate your reign and restore light to the sands of time,' she had told him, and Narg, bowing his head as he always did whenever he passed through the entrance hall, avoided the clock so as not to feel the weight of the mourning his kingdom had borne for nine years.

It was not known exactly why Alfredo had ordered it built, if indeed it had been him.

But the coronation ceremony of Old Minister required that the intricate and imposing clock hanging above the fireplace be synchronised with the new king, who must possess Hugnork blood.

Although they contrived to devise a stratagem concerning the appointment of Nork, Narg’s grandfather, they could not outwit the spell of time, and it was the blood of Windar that was spilled into the bowl at the foot of Alfredo’s monolith.

That was why, for the first time in recorded history, when Renger took command, the sands were not black, but were tinged with the white of the new generation; its gears merely turned to align with the cycle that was beginning and to mark, year after year, the birth of the reigning king.

The deadline heightened his fears. The ravens and the dread of being unworthy of the crown haunted him until the first Sunday after the second full moon of spring, when he met Maltón.

It was during one of the four annual tournaments that the kingdom was wont to organise each season.

All of Old Minister and the neighbouring villages would attend.

Regardless of social class, from servants to lords, they would crowd the colourful stands to witness the masterful contests that were usually put on.

The tournament was divided into two parts: first, the realm’s promising young hopefuls faced off—future warriors who would join the ranks, among whom was Prince Narg Hugnork. Then, to conclude, the most spectacular contests of the royal knights.

The lists began to unfold and Narg left his rivals lying at his feet until he secured one of the two places in the final battle.

The multitude chanted his name, delighted that their future king was displaying such skill.

The other place was taken by Kuopio, who was not to be outdone and proved that either of them would be a worthy champion.