XXVI – Queen of Hearts #3

'Despot, villain and tyrant, I spit in his name. Tonight I offer my blood and curse the descendants of Alfredo.

I spit in his name and offer my blood once more. If this be the light, who would wish to live under his rule? There shall be no day, night, winter or summer, nor any kingdom capable of preventing the force of the night’s justice from falling upon this land.

I curse Alfredo and all his descendants, even if it costs me my life and that of my son. Just as my father robbed me of my freedom and was punished for it, I curse and condemn Odín for taking, without permission, my heart, which I kept in the chest of my beloved.

The gods and their whims shall come to an end, so that humanity may be ruled by humans. We shall free and master Fenrir, and when that moment comes—for it will come—the earth shall be ours once more.'

As soon as she finished reciting her wish, her voice breaking as she swallowed the anguish that choked her like daggers, the last drop of her thick blood fell into the bowl and rippled out until it vanished.

The five laid their cut hands upon Nork’s mutilated breast; then, a blizzard from all four corners enveloped them, and a mist, mingling with the shells that carpeted the ground, rose from their feet.

Bolet cast his gaze upon Marzota, she upon Pokrak, he upon Tregor, and then they turned towards Windar, who offered a half-smile.

Her voice had been heard, when a shrill creaking sound alerted them.

Before them, the rock beneath Alfredo’s monolith began to give way, slowly, whilst a warm, foul odour reached them as the heart of the cave was revealed.

Through the thin white cloth they wore, they felt their Naamclënt marks ignite, and, affrighted, the four loyal ones tried to raise their hands to stay the unfolding doom, but it was to no avail.

In an instant, the temperate air of early autumn froze utterly, and the misty swirl rose above their heads, descending alongside a glowing purple light to strike the breast of the late king.

Nork’s body shuddered and the vessel upon his brow wobbled until it tilted down towards his nose. Blood began to pour like a crimson waterfall towards his chin and, upon reaching the edge of his jaw, solidified into a razor-sharp blade of plasma that decapitated him.

Windar closed her eyes and stifled a retch.

Her beloved’s head rolled until it struck her feet, and she believed that had been Odín’s wrath in response to her threat.

She awaited death—they all awaited it—but then a reddish-blue spark from the Everflame held by Alfredo broke free.

It span through the air along with the vortex that still enveloped them, then floated towards the severed head.

Surrendered to their fate, they beheld it dance.

It circled Nork’s nose thrice before resting upon his lips and, as if he had inhaled it, it vanished.

Then, it came to pass. The eyes of the lifeless head opened, but they were not the ones Windar remembered—that dark brown so bright that when she kissed him it seemed to dazzle.

They were red; the Everflame had taken hold of them, and so, as the lips parted, its voice was heard: 'From the hand of the sons of Midgard, with blessed blood, salvation shall come.

On a pitch-black night the door shall open; the moon shall be clothed in blood and the stars in victory.

Claws shall rend the looms of fate, and from the jaws shall spring the fountain of death. A new tomorrow shall be sown.'

The morrow found Windar robed in black both in body and soul, and they dismantled the attic. If they were to labour through the night, they must needs remain in the shadows, and beneath the statue of Alfredo they discovered a new refuge, that none might ever behold them together in public again.

With the realm hanging over her head and Renger now seven years of age, it would be arduous for Windar to range far and wide in search of a means to bring about the rebirth of the land they had vowed to each other; thus, they parted ways.

Only Marzota remained by her side as a handmaid; Tregor returned to his homeland, Ubberia, to act as the bridge between the two emissaries who set out to travel the world: Pokrak to Móntria and Bolet set course for Tloston.

The sound of wood crashing echoed through the cave as Windar dropped the lid of the chest containing her widow’s dress.

'I no longer need it,' she said, and pushed it aside. 'We have come this far, and from here we set out again.'

She placed within the burlap sack that which she intended to keep, and, with Bolet’s assistance—for he tendered unto her a walking staff that she accepted somewhat reluctantly—she rose to her feet.

'Let Marzota look after him. I shall repair to the hut to lay these things by and see if that brainless fool Bartón has not shat where he eats.'

Heading for the exit, she stepped round the puddle of water in the middle, climbed the three rocks that served as steps, and stood before the whitish stone.

With her hands resting upon it and the emerald light they emitted, without the slightest effort, she guided it to one side until the opening was wide enough.

In the still-dark sky, dawn had begun to paint the morning in a soft orange. She hesitated to turn and bid farewell to her beloved’s head, yet feared that in doing so she would be accepting the remote possibility of defeat, and that—that was not part of her plans.