XXVIII – Point of no return #2

Arwel, who had mistaken the blare of the trumpets, in his excited rush, searched desperately for his king amongst the crowd gathered by the door.

Standing halfway up the stone staircase, he recognised the representative from Cartos and was about to return to the temple when he witnessed the moment the old man interacted with Cheas, the glow in the gem and how his comrade’s body had involuntarily leaned backwards.

The man left Cheas motionless, his gaze lost in the void, and followed the others into the castle.

The commander took the steps two at a time, whilst ordering a soldier escorting the visitors to wait by the fireplace.

In Cheas’s ear, he disguised what he already knew as a question and received a timid sound of affirmation in reply.

'By the sharp edge of Tyr’s sword! We are in deeper trouble than we thought,' he warned, the rune pendant between his fingers, and felt Gregor’s hand upon his shoulder.

The eldest of the troop came from the stables and, without uttering a word, patted their swords. Arwel and Cheas waited for him to declare that they were hallucinating, that it was not them, that they had not reached the kingdom and were in the presence of The Oracle.

'Well,' quoth Gregor in a low voice, 'it seemeth this is real too.' And with his head bowed, he went on.

Arwel noted the leaden cast in his gait, his shoulders hunched, and perceived that it was not on account of the axe, but of the apathy which the darkness had sown within them, taking root with every passing minute.

For the man of the stories, the troop’s orator, passed by without halting beside those who were the protagonists of one of his favourite legends—for until that moment, that was all it was.

The four men, or at least they appeared to be so, embodied the essential elements of the earth and converged at The Oracle, the gateway to the direct path to knowledge.

Coming from the north, somewhere in the Everwhite Mountain, where Odín had entrusted his Ravens to Alfredo and there, in the most inhospitable cave upon the earth, had left them as guardians of truth, the past, present and future.

'What will remain of us if we survive?' Arwel wondered, no longer recognising himself or seeing the courage in Cheas’s eyes or the ceaseless drive in Gregor.

He summoned the strength he knew he lacked to face such things and, with a nod, invited Cheas to follow him.

He, as the commander, was to escort them to see the regent king, and with a bow in which he swept his cloak to one side, he asked them to accompany him; but before crossing the archway, the four raised their heads.

'The balance is about to be broken,' said one; yet Arwel felt as though they had all spoken as they raised their left hands and, with a slender finger peeking out from their flared sleeves, pointed at the clock, 'and the end of all hope shall come.'

Amidst a torrent of curses at the situation and at himself, Arwel swallowed his questions.

He, who had believed himself the bravest of the brave, was terrified.

No matter how much death and destruction he might witness or cause in war, nothing frightened him as much as the presence of that which he could not control.

With The Oracle following him like a shadow in the midday sun, he felt as though they were carrying such a weight that it burned his muscles, took his breath away and drenched his forehead in sweat.

He longed to arrive soon so he could place such a responsibility in someone else’s hands, and in his attempt to go unnoticed—so that not even his boots would echo—he suffered the distance to the throne room.

When they entered, he requested that they tarry by the door.

Cloet stood in the midst, between the entrance and the throne, surrounded by Gregor, the three goats and the folk of Cartos, to whom he was repeating Cheas’s prepared speech to perfection.

'I am sorry. My uncle has gone out to deal with an urgent matter.

He shall return anon.' Yet the strain of dissembling was plain in his utterance.

Why had Narg departed, bearing away part of his retinue, upon the eve of his birthday?

The image of the king of the empire was strong, but like that of any leader, it hung by a thread, with speculators lurking in the shadows for it to weaken that they might strike.

Arwel drew near the prince and beheld how wretched he appeared.

His bruised and increasingly swollen cheek and nose, coupled with the swelling in his eye from the blow he had received, gave him a ghastly aspect, yet it was not merely that; his hair was dishevelled, as if a nest of straw built by some wild bird sat upon his head.

The two small plaits that usually hung down at the sides of his face were tied back in an attempt to hold the rest of his hair in place.

His youth and bearing were no longer so admirable, Arwel thought, realising at that moment that reigning was not for everyone.

Cloet was so lost in his speech that he had to clear his throat to gain his attention. The young man’s face lit up when he beheld him, but he immediately frowned.

'My lord. The elders desire to speak with you.'

'Well, let them wait,' he replied curtly and turned to Gregor. 'Have you prepared him?'

The warrior nodded and held forth his hands, which were covered in a peculiar green film that seemed to glow.

'Excuse me,' Arwel persisted. 'I deem it important.'

'Important? Well, sort it out thyself. What sort of council are ye that ye have left me alone in the midst of all this?' he replied, watching him out of the corner of his right eye.

Arwel drew a breath ere replying. Had it been in his power, he would have already set a sword to his throat to compel him to swallow such terms, yet instead he thrust Gregor aside with his forearm—Gregor, who stood between them and The Oracle—that Cloet might observe them.

'You deal with them! That is an order. I could not care less about the ranks or titles they might hold. They are men, just like those who are about to die, and from what I can see, they are not in the best of health.'

He cast his gaze upward and, standing behind the elders, espied Cheas with his head bowed and his characteristic hunched shoulders. He strode directly toward him, eager to learn where Windar was and hoping, as if by sorcery, that all would be resolved.

He was left speechless when the elders stepped in like a barricade. 'Skill is seen on the battlefield,' the great warriors used to say, and at that moment, the prince’s years of study seemed to be worth nothing as, with an exasperated snort, he looked at Arwel over his shoulder.

'Thou meanest that thou wouldst have this picturesque company of corpses move aside.'

'Time groweth short,' four voices of different colours and tones, spectral, yet united as one, interrupted him.

Cloet, without realising to whom he was speaking, raised his left eyebrow, shrewd and defiant. He approached the elderly man bearing the staff with the red sapphire at the far right end and walked around him.

Arwel rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand to wipe the sweat from his blond fringe and calm himself. The Oracle’s voice nearly made him wet his pants, but he had to pull himself together—was he not a brave warrior, after all? he wondered.

Cloet’s behaviour was incomprehensible; like a barbarian, he was mimicking his father’s manners, and Arwel, fearful of provoking The Oracle’s wrath, approached whilst, with his index finger to his lips, he tried to warn him.

'Narg Hugnork is not within the realm,' he declared, ceasing his scrutiny before the old man.

'I, Cloet Munork, am the regent king, and I command you to step aside or I shall have you arrested.

Do ye understand, or do I need to speak louder so ye can hear me?

' he pronounced each word slowly, ending up right next to the old man’s ear, his whole body radiating arrogance.

It was only then, the hard way, that he realised whom he had offended when, intending to push the old man aside, he grabbed him by the shoulder. Fire—that was what he felt between his fingers, and as he recoiled in horror, he watched the old man raise his head until the hood fell back.

His eyes were red, as was his tongue when he let it peek out from between his lips and clicked his tongue. In response, the fire in the torches hanging from the hall’s columns flared up and the flames spread until they touched the ceiling.

Cloet desperately sought aid from the warriors, but found that both Arwel and Gregor had prostrated themselves before them, knees on the floor and heads bowed.

'Irrational courage is not bravery, but suicide,' thought Cheas when the prince, instead of aping them to mitigate the harm wrought by his fatal ramblings, began to draw his sword.

'Guards, arrest them or slay them—I do not care.'

A second elder stepped forward, raising the staff above his head, its blue gem glowing. The air grew thick, and a dense, damp mist rose from the bluish rocks of the walls.

The third followed suit. They were dazzled by the green gem that glowed, and the ground began to quake until the castle shook to its very foundations.

The man with white eyes was the last to join them. As he struck his staff against the ground, he raised his left hand and, with a slender finger emerging from his sleeves, pointed at Cloet.

Enveloped in mist, the prince’s body began to rise until his feet no longer touched the ground, however much he strove to free himself with kicks and convulsions.

She had lost track of time locked up in there, but she gladly went over the necessary preparations and noted that everything was ready. Windar had entrusted her with one of the most important phases of the plan, and she, her faithful maid and friend, had no intention of letting her down.