XXVIII – Point of no return #3

For a few minutes, Marzota listened attentively for any sign of folk lurking in the vicinity. To be sure, with her hands glowing burgundy, she pushed aside the rock that sealed the shelter and peered out halfway.

A gust shook the bushes of the labyrinth and struck her breast. Excited, to confirm that it was her turn to act, she raised her head and saw how the Everflame held by the statue of Alfredo rose on a thread until it was lost in the firmament.

She hastened back; she already bore the spell to seal the door in her hands when, amidst waves of shells carpeting the ground, the earth trembled and the rock split in two.

It did not matter; what were they to hide from if the moment had arrived?

That tremor could mean naught other than the tearing of the veil to announce the arrival of her lord.

She ran to her place. Her bare feet splashed in the water at the entrance. She crossed the archway and rushed towards the circular mark she had carefully drawn on the floor, right in front of the marble altar and beneath the firmament painted on the vaulted white ceiling.

It was the second time she would cast the spell, but the first time she would have to do it alone.

Kneeling within the circle, facing a bowl of black water wherein leaves, roots and vertebrae floated, she took the dagger in one hand and the sphere containing the spark of the Everflame in the other. She was ready; she closed her eyes.

In the armoury, lit by two candles and three torches on the wall, Gwion grew weary of searching for that whose likeness he knew not and went to the window for some fresh air.

The soldiers had left Owin’s belongings there, piled up in a corner; amidst insults and curses, he was endeavouring to gather what he needed to enchant the messenger ravens.

With sixteen days yet ere the start of spring, the windows were still misted over, and Gwion wiped one of them clean to gaze at the four clouds, three stars and the moon, nearly full, which perpendicularly tinted the castle courtyard.

With his eyes fixed upon it, and his heart in his throat, he thought of Maed: 'Come soon, brother, come safely. I will be waiting here for you.'

'Nervous?' Owin asked him, and he spun round. 'You hum that tune when you are nervous. What is it?'

'It is a lullaby,' he replied, pleased that his new best friend knew him so well.

'I would like to learn it, so I can have your composure too,' he said with a smile as he moved aside a burlap sack containing his books and placed it upon the bench where the axes were displayed.

He already had the albino raven’s feather, Tloston willow root powder, and Kerkion bee pollen in his possession; all that remained was to find the sand from the shores of the Écolas Sea, when, suddenly, with a bang, the door flew open.

A wild gust of wind swept over them, forcing them to brace themselves to keep from falling.

Dishevelled, Gwion brushed his face and felt how, as the flame of the torches rose, so did the hairs on his body.

Dishevelled, Owin brushed his black locks back and beheld the thick mist pouring in about him.

Gwion’s thoughts jostled for position, each vying for prominence. He could barely make out Owin behind the leaden curtain, and despair took hold of him. His brother, his beloved, and the certainty that Windar or Tregor were plotting another attack were his spark.

The mist seemed to solidify into droplets and enter through every pore, turning into daggers that pierced his insides.

Yet it was not the pain that compelled Owin to double over; it was the rage that squeezed his stomach and made him clench his teeth until his jaw cracked.

His legs trembled, and just as he felt himself succumbing to fear, the warmth in his trouser pocket made him reach in.

'This is what love feels like,' he thought, and with his eyelids clenched, he swept his arms to dispel the mist until he reached Gwion.

He desired to implore him for aid, worn out from striving against the tingling sensation he had felt for these two days past and which now, turned to fire, was beginning to rend his ribs asunder from within.

Then the agony broke his resolve. He uttered a scream, and in that desperate cry he opened his eyes.

The floor undulated and all the swords, axes, maces and armour fell with a deafening crash. The walls shook and the cloud of thick dust that fell from the ceiling further polluted the air until it mingled with the mist.

Gwion endeavoured to steady himself and ride the tidal wave of rocks beneath his feet to rescue Owin, when, amidst the particles of soot floating in the air, he beheld a shadow scaling the bluish stone walls.

His heart pounded hard; the silhouette made its way through the dancing light of the torches to reach him.

Fear, and his knees trembled. Cold, and a stinging sensation ran down his spine.

Then, just as he was about to be attacked, he growled, and in that voracious roar, as all the light sources went out, he felt his eyes change.

The white-eyed old man fanned the air with his hand and instantly Cloet flew across the hall. His body, like a projectile, reached the throne. The solid ochre wood bore his weight as he crashed into the backrest and, sprawled out, he remained seated upon it.

The Oracle lowered his arms. The mist, the tremor and the fire in the torches subsided. And, without his feet touching the ground, he moved towards Cloet.

As he passed Arwel, the blue-eyed man brushed his shoulder.

An electric current sprang from the centre of the commander’s chest, spreading through his limbs until it settled at the tips of his twenty fingers, and inside his head he could hear clearly: 'Tyr hath need of thee.

Perkolon dependeth upon thee, and thou upon him.

Thou shalt perish if thou fearest; thou shalt live if thou dost sacrifice thyself. '

Cloet, with a sob in his throat, besought mercy as he sank to his knees before the four men.

'A law for the nine worlds: Midgard remaineth outside the fabric of time. A god did rend it long ago, and this day we restore the balance,' said the voices that electrified the air as the sound waves spread. 'Bring me to Owin Frylson.'

Owin met the darkness and thought he had lost the battle before he had even begun to fight.

On all fours, Gwion, breathing heavily and seeing clearly through the Black Mantle, beheld Owin upon his knees. He felt his arms swelling, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and savoured his invincibility.

He reached to his waist to draw his sword and end what he knew he could not win, when Gwion’s hand upon his shoulder and eyes that sparkled with blue galaxies in the darkness stayed him.

'Gather what thou needest to conjure the dream and let us depart. This is a point of no return; our time dwindles. I am certain it was Tregor—we must reach Narg ere it be too late.'