XXIII – The Stone of Destiny #3

Both stood prepared within the dusty arena, beneath a sun that hung at its zenith, the air far hotter than had been foreseen.

A moment ere they donned their helmets, they traded a jest and a slight.

At Windar’s signal, the horn sounded, and then something occurred that was not part of the prince’s plans: a murder of black and brown ravens flew over the field.

Intended as a festive gesture, a hundred ravens were to be released during the awards ceremony, but the man in charge of opening the cage misinterpreted the signal and set them free.

The onset of the battle was proclaimed. Kuopio stood already poised in an offensive posture, whilst Narg remained unmoving, his sword within its sheath and his arms hanging at his sides.

The red-haired warrior was aware of his own strength, but he also knew the prince’s skill.

He paused for a moment, wondering if this might be a ruse designed to take him by surprise, but Narg did not move.

The atmosphere grew tense in an instant, with only the incessant cawing and the whispers of the crowd to be heard.

With his eyes shut, Narg sensed the creatures nearer than they truly were; the flapping of their pinions deafened him. Blood rushed to his temples, swelling his veins. The rapid, heavy pounding of his heart echoed in his head and left him breathless.

Panic seized him, and cold sweat ran down his spine.

He yearned to move, to flee; he cared not what his folk, his grandmother, or even the denial of the throne might think.

He needed to reach safety. To run without looking back, to get away, but he could not.

It was not his manhood that held him back, but his legs trembling just like his hands, covered in sticky sweat mixed with the earth flying around him.

He found himself with no way out, trapped within his own armour.

'At least, covered in so much metal, their beaks shall not pierce me,' he thought.

Helpless, he recalled every lesson he had been taught perfectly, going over every movement, every thrust, every zigzag and defence.

But none of it was of any use to him in the face of this winged threat.

He invoked his gods, beseeching them for succour. He named each of his ancestors—at least those he could remember—praying they would forgive him. Weak, unworthy and cowardly were the three words that raced through his mind, and the vivid memory of the pain from his dreams finally broke him.

That which had long been pent within his entrails burst forth in a scream of panic; so loud and unlooked-for was it that the ravens, startled, took flight.

Those present, transfixed, began to hush one another until a graveyard silence prevailed.

Narg managed to move his hands. With one, he removed his helmet and his face, drenched in sweat that masked his tears, glistened in the sun. With the other, he drew his sword.

The blood bubbling through his veins filled his body and turned that fear into rage.

He let out another cry, deeper and more guttural.

Alerted, Kuopio took cover as he saw him running towards him.

Three thrusts were enough. On one side lay the shield split in two; on the other, the red-haired man’s sword; and at his feet, Kuopio, on one knee, conceded defeat.

The entire amphitheatre rose to its feet to cheer and applaud, surprised at the speed with which the contest had reached its conclusion, leaving Narg as the rightful champion for yet another season.

He brushed his hair back and looked towards the main box.

He beheld his grandmother, who was applauding with pride in her smile, and, in a gesture of victory, raised his sword.

Then he paced in a circle to receive the audience’s ovation.

He was not certain he deserved it, and even less so when he espied, in the front row among the throng, a young man a few years his senior who, with his arms crossed and a frown upon his brow, beheld him without stir.

In an attempt to ignore the particular intensity of that judgemental gaze, he approached Kuopio to help him to his feet, and the blood upon his comrade’s arm startled him.

He did not remember wounding him; he had only attacked him to disarm him.

The rage that had blinded him filled him with despair, and he was frightened by his own behaviour.

He cast down his sword and, in great haste, without even receiving the mistletoe wreath that awaited him, departed the arena.

Hidden within a thicket of small bushes at the western edge of the realm, he felt safe and free to weep, and so he did.

A flood of emotion overwhelmed him. In a fit of rage, he stripped off the pieces of his armour one by one and hurled them with force several metres away.

Feeling sorry for himself, he judged himself to be filthy and unworthy.

'What sort of king will I become if my fear overpowers my strength?' he asked aloud as he let his body fall onto the grass and looked at his hands, stained with his comrade’s blood.

'A very good one. Provided thou learn to control thyself,' said a voice approaching with slow steps.

Desperate, he remembered he was unarmed and tried to stand, but weariness weakened his legs; he could even feel the weight of the armour he no longer wore.

'Calm down, Your Highness, thou needst not run from me.'

Narg recognised the face of the young man peering through the leaves. His frown had vanished, and he was holding out his hand.

'It is a pleasure to meet thee. My name is Maltón Trylosson.'

Without another word, he sat down beside him and together they gazed at the nothing and the everything. The green foliage, the sun bathing the meadow and filtering through the leafy branches of the trees in spring bloom.

After a while in the pleasant silence of their company, interrupted only by the buzz of a thirsty bee or the trill of a thrush or the distant clanging of cattle grazing upon a nearby farm, Narg turned towards the young man.

The peace he radiated comforted him; he no longer desired to flee.

He had never before felt the confidence his gaze gave him.

And perhaps it was that, or the sense that he already knew his secret, that prompted him to speak freely.

'I will never pass the test to claim the throne,' he said, distraught. 'With me, the legacy of the Hugnork will die, and my cousin Lerg will lay claim to Old Minister.'

'Why dost thou want the throne?' asked Maltón without even looking at him.

Narg felt intimidated by the manner in which he addressed him. Had his grandmother been present, she would undoubtedly have sentenced him to two weeks in the dungeon for impertinence, at the very least. But she was not there, and that question struck him as curiously precise.

'I desire to serve the folk. That is the role of a king, is it not?

' he said innocently. 'My grandmother does what she can for the realm, yet I behold the needs. What is a king without his folk? I would follow Alfredo’s example, and when Father comes for me one day, I would have him grant me a fair station from which to watch over all of Móntria from Valhalla. '

'All of Móntria?' asked Maltón, surprised.

'It is a rich land, yet it doth not prosper for the pride of its rulers. I would draw up treaties whereby the eight kingdoms might labour together for peace. Perchance, in some future day, a worthy king may govern it as one empire.'

'Dost thou think thou art?' he said, turning to face him.

With his bright blue eyes, Narg held his gaze and paused for a moment to ponder his answer. He earnestly desired to be worthy—of his people, his legacy, and his god.

'Only under Odín’s blessing,' he said at last.

'Then, with such conviction and foresight, what is the obstacle?'

Narg bowed his head. He did not dare say it; just thinking upon it made him feel unclean. For a moment, he played with one of the long blades of grass surrounding his leg whilst hiding his face in the thin, wavy hair that fell to halfway down his ear.

'The ravens. They paralyse me,' he confessed at length, and the lightness of his words completed the picture.

'Well, perchance I can lend aid. I am a sorcerer.'

Narg sprang to his feet as if propelled by a spring.

'Impossible. I will not cheat,' he said, his fist clenched before Maltón’s face. 'Either I am worthy of the throne or I am not. I accept my fate as such.' With his chin raised, he pounded his narrow chest.

'It pleaseth me more than thou canst imagine.

I shall not give thee a spell to master the ravens, but a talisman with which thou mayest face thy fears.

No man without fear is wise. He who feareth not is not brave but a fool—for, above all our impulses, reigns survival, and fear is what ensures it.

How dost thou think thou wast able to win today? '

That first encounter, unbeknownst to either of them, sealed the fate of Old Minister and Móntria.

The morn after the summer solstice, Narg found himself standing before the statue of Alfredo.

With the gleaming jewels of his crown bright in the sun and two ravens perched upon his shoulders, he poured his blood into the small bowl at the hero’s feet.

He swore allegiance to his people whilst clutching in his pocket the rough stone with which he had returned victorious from his trial.