XXIX – The Chosen Ones #2

Gregor stood before the thick dungeon door and, at his command, the guards let him pass.

Tregor’s wrists and ankles were shackled with thick chains anchored to the floor, preventing him from moving his limbs or even standing. Thus Gwion had left him: sitting upon Maed’s bed of love, head bowed.

'At last you deign to visit your uncle,' he said, raising his gaze. 'Have you come to torture me or to kill me?'

Gregor drew a deep breath. How hard it was for him to recognise, in that gloomy countenance, the man who had played a part in raising him: his face smeared with blood, his eyebrow and lip split, and his nose broken. Gwion had certainly vented his fill of rage upon him.

'I have come to set you free,' he replied, standing before him.

'Do you plan to let the Wolf loose again and play the hunter as soon as he is running free across the countryside?'

'If it is inevitable, I choose the winning side. I am loyal to Narg,' he replied, averting his gaze to prevent his eyes from betraying him as he unlocked the padlocks.

Now free, Tregor, knowing the man to be sincere, did not stir.

'I understand your caution,' he said, pointing to the axe upon his back with which he had assailed him. 'For three decades, and more, I have defended Narg in every battle; I can do so in this madness. Besides, if Cloet’s intention is to reign as Lerg, no darkness could be worse.'

He sat down beside him and endeavoured to sustain his gaze.

At close quarters, and behind his bushy eyebrows, the half-smile that crinkled his eyes made him appear even more sombre.

Then, without Gregor being able to discern the exact moment, Tregor's countenance shifted.

He looked as gentle again as Gregor remembered his uncle.

'I am glad to have you on board, little Belt. We should have trusted you and your wisdom.'

'You shall have time to repay me. Perhaps if you instruct this stubborn fatso how to cast the spell to live as long as you have. But first, the plan is to extricate you from this place.'

He announced his coming with a tapping upon the glass that broke Windar’s concentration. In the moonlight, the raven's leaden plumage appeared yet greyer, and she, her heart full of anticipation, opened the casement.

She untied the note he was carrying and rewarded him with a few crumbs of bread she had taken from the nearby table. The four words in the message made her forget her weariness and drew a sombre smile across her aged face.

She turned to her men and perceived that Bartón, sitting at the table, bored and drowsy after supper, was dozing whilst pressing the tip of a black sword—protruding from a linen bag lying there—into the pad of his index finger.

Although it annoyed her that he was fiddling with such a legendary weapon, she thought to let him play with it until he reached out to pick up the tip of a silver root that had fallen from the bag.

'It is about time!' she exclaimed, and the three men turned towards her.

She nodded twice as she exchanged glances with Pokrak and Bolet and, without alerting Bartón, passed the note to them under the table.

'Make ready, my faithful warrior. The hour hath come for thee to defend thy king's life with courage.'

Bartón, after receiving a passionate kiss, his chest puffed out, got ready and set off with Bolet towards the north-west. The task would be simple: to intercept Narg before he reached the kingdom and escort him safely to the hut along with Maed and Celtión.

'Go on ahead and fetch our boy,' she said to Pokrak when they were alone.

With a white cloth, she wiped the tip of the black-edged sword and placed it back in the bag along with the root.

'I shall go and free Tregor once I have finished preparing everything for the strap,' she said, looking within to see what was lacking.

'As soon as they bring me the leather from the loyal one, I shall be able to conjure it.

I hope Celtión does not forget the rock crystal to bring this matter to a close. '

She beheld the doubt upon Pokrak's thin, pale visage and, as she rapped upon the table, she strode straight towards him.

'It is not so hard, thou coward! Thou bringest the boy, Bolet unto the sacrifice, and lullest them to slumber until I return. Moreover, I must tarry until my guest appeareth.'

Pokrak swallowed hard. It was not cowardice, but the extreme confidence in Windar frightened him.

'He does not know yet. How do you plan to make this happen?' he said as he adjusted his Ministerian Militia cloak.

Pokrak finished adjusting the breastplate with the raven emblem upon the front, and, ere he might don the armguard, Windar drew near to examine the wound Tros had inflicted.

She picked up certain bay leaves from the table to ease his pain.

The herb crumbled between her fingers as a greenish light flared up when she pressed them against his arm.

She expended some of her energy, for she was determined to ensure her chief soldier was in good health, more so than herself, who suffered a constant twinge in her hip.

Between the nerves and the anxiety, the scant sleep in uncomfortable places, and the infirmities of her age, it was a dire combination for the journey she was gladly undertaking.

'When the first blood blessed by Odín is spilled,' she said, making no effort to conceal the revulsion upon her face, 'the balance shall be broken. With the rift opened a little wider, he shall not be able to stay it. The darkness within him shall prevail; he hath already proven it.'

After the trembling command to 'Halt', Cheas scanned the area to make sure there was no one else.

On a silver platter placed upon the pyre before him, he found the severed head and looked up.

The stone vault was painted with an exact replica of the night sky, and the constellations seemed to illuminate the cave.

Although he had no idea what was happening, he tried to move forward, but Marzota, her face shadowed, smiled. Cheas would not stop her; the cause and her mission were worth her sacrifice.

'None may prevent it. The age of the gods hath come to its end.'

In a single movement, and ere Cheas could draw near, Marzota smashed the crystal sphere against her knees and, with a war cry, slit her own throat with the dagger in her right hand.

The blood touched the fire of the Everflame, which turned a dark purple and spilled into the bowl. A burst of sparks, fire and smoke rose, and the constellations etched on the ceiling aligned to give life to the black cloud rising from the cauldron.

He beheld it advancing towards him, teeming with silhouettes that took the shape of jumbled faces struggling to escape, amidst the screams and wails of torn souls.

The most agile of the troop felt he could not run.

The terror that crept up his ankles numbed his legs and clamped down upon his lower abdomen.

It was almost upon him; the claw that had emerged from the deadly mist was about to seize him.

He closed his eyes, and the double thump of his heart set the gem hanging around his neck ablaze.

He did not see it, but he could feel the heat around him and its light piercing his eyelids.

Magic filled his soul. He drew a deep breath.

Jasmine—and the sweet scent enveloped him.

Cheas, in the midst of the cave, enveloped in a shell of orange light, was encircled by the mist and its lament. It passed over him and spread across the earth.

In the very same hollow where he had waited two days for Maed to confirm that no one was lurking before entering the dungeon, Gwion and Owin lay hidden, spying on Gregor.

With their hearts in their mouths and rage burning in their guts, they hearkened to the precise orders he gave to the guards stationed at the door: clear the corridor and let Tregor escape.

'I knew they were all complicit,' he said, taking him by the shoulder and closing his hand over the small burlap sack Owin was holding. 'We must away; only you and I, my friend, can set this right. We are the chosen ones.'

That night, an hour before the commencement of Narg's birthday celebrations, three steeds passed through the market gate. One rode west, and the other two, their Ministerian cloaks billowing in the wind, set off northward.