The Arrival

XXX – Three Minutes to Midnigh t

The Ambus h

After many hours of riding across the desert plain, the Red Host turned onto a narrow, dusty, tree-lined path. The treetops formed a canopy over their heads and, in the distance, on the blue horizon, the three towers of the castle rose.

They were now in Ministerian territory and, as if the rest of the empire were not quite his own, Narg felt the call of his homeland. Anxiety stirred in his chest and, like a fish out of water, he gasped for breath to fight the sensation of suffocation until, his throat parched, he began to cough.

To grant him leisure to recover without halting, Kuopio, with three shouts, commanded them to form a diamond formation about Narg.

He positioned Tobert at the tip of the right flank, Celtión upon the left; he took up position as the rearguard, Maed moved to the van, and between them, the twenty soldiers took their places in bands of five.

Tobert was excited; it was the first time he had been part of anything like this, and he felt that, without even having learnt to crawl, he had been pushed into running.

Determined to work out where his master might be, he raised his head.

Through the branches, the vast starry canopy looked magnificent, without a cloud in sight, and the position of the waxing moon, nearly full and tilting toward the west, told him midnight was near.

With a flicker of doubt, he quickened his trot to swap places with the soldier who was just behind Maed on the left.

'Can I borrow Perkolon’s book?' he asked, and the warrior, without taking his eyes off the path, leaned back slightly, reached into his saddlebag and handed it to him.

The sorcerer and the book would have rolled onto the ground had Maed not caught sight, out of the corner of his eye, of the acrobatics he was performing to keep his balance.

With a half-smile, like the responsible adult he felt himself to be, he took the reins to guide his horse so that he could read.

Tobert shifted his gaze between the sky and Perkolon several times. He was almost certain of what he had discovered and shifted in the saddle to keep pace with Maed. He held the book out to him, open to the page where Colquen had drawn the constellations when he noted the moonlit glint in his eyes.

A wild and violent violet mist was approaching them from the distance.

Only the temple’s stained-glass windows had survived. All the windows in the citadel and the castle had shattered following the terrifying stampede caused by the spell unleashed by Marzota.

With a crunch beneath his bloodstained boots, Cheas entered the reception hall, and they could not tell who was more frightened: Cloet, Arwel and Gregor, standing with The Oracle as they were about to leave, or him, holding the silver tray in his hand upon which rested the sleeping head.

They were unaware of the purpose of such a dreadful curse that had managed to subdue the commander and the prince, who looked deathly pale.

What they did know was that time was running out.

Gregor, with a look bordering on indifference, pointed out to them that the tension in the strings holding the clock indicated that there was half an hour left before it would turn.

With nine words spoken by The Oracle in a single voice, he gave Cheas the idea; with another five, he indicated where to go.

'Before the crossroads, darkness lies in wait.

'The Cave of Whispers!'

The elders refused to go. Odín had charged them with lighting the way to balance the scales, but to intervene in the fate of humans was to break the rules, and that carried a heavy punishment.

Yet neither were they prepared to retreat to the cave in the mountains where they belonged, as if the darkness of the earth frightened them.

In a circle, by the bonfire, with a prayer on their lips, they would await the return of the troops.

Whilst Cheas hurriedly placed the silver tray with the head upon the mantelpiece, Arwel arrayed a handful of men to accompany them and another to guard The Oracle and keep watch over Lerg, locked away in the loft.

The three elite warriors and the prince gathered within the stable.

Cloet, his hands trembling, fastened the clasp of his cloak after mounting.

He was not ready; he knew that all too well, but if reigning meant pretending, he decided to become the great illusionist. He approached the commander, who was pulling his fringe back with an elastic band, to plan their next moves.

Gregor was already mounted upon Clarens when, as he passed Cheas, he turned the reins towards the market exit and sidestepped the question of why he would not be accompanying them.

'Boy, you owe this curious fellow the revelation of your secret. Until we meet again, wherever that may be, do me the favour of honouring your worth.'

Confused, Cheas shook his head and, as soon as he parted his lips, instead of speaking, he savoured the melancholic words that tasted like a bittersweet farewell.

'Like your father, we all have a destiny to fulfil,' he added as he dug his spurs in. 'It has been an honour to fight by your side.'

Through the main gate of Old Minister, the Ministerian squadron rode forth alongside Welst’s fifteen soldiers.

At the van were three steeds: two bearing the raven standard with a wing outstretched and its beak gaping, and the third displaying the raven in flight.

Arwel, Cheas and Cloet rode at full speed, praying they would arrive in time to forestall what they sensed might be a massacre.

The savage storm of darkness was about to overtake them. The platoon halted without breaking their diamond formation and struggled to keep the horses still, as they sought to flee from the terrifying roars and heart-rending screams coming from the mist.

Tower reared up upon his hind legs in an attempt to shield the king, who clung on with all his might to the reins and the thick black mane.

Maed had drawn his sword, ready to strike down aught corporeal that might be there, whilst Tobert searched his trunk, praying that his master had not made a mistake in letting go of his hand.

Seconds before they were overtaken, the young sorcerer dismounted, stood before Maed’s horse, and smashed a glass vial at his feet.

A whitish cloud rose as he, his lips pursed, drew it in until it was all within his lungs.

He bowed his head and, with his arms outstretched at his sides, enveloped in amber light, he blew.

From his breath and through every pore, he formed a radiant barrier that spread out in a triangle until it reached the last man, Kuopio.

He did not desire to turn about as the mist enveloped them. He knew the protection was not wide enough to shield everyone, but at least the Raven King’s life would be safe.

'Remain within and forbear to breathe!' he cried with all his might, his frame pulsing with light.

Maed puffed out his cheeks and turned toward Narg to make sure he was protected, and as he retreated in a straight line to help him control Tower, he covered his ears with his palms. The shrill screech with which the mist moved mingled with the soldiers’ screams of terror and pain, and hurt his delicate eardrums.

At the very back, Kuopio’s brown eyes darted from side to side.

His shoulders barely fit within the curtain of light.

He felt the darkness brushing against him, with disfigured faces peering out of the thick plasma and claws seeking to pierce the defence to seize him.

He drew breath, heavily, once, twice, thrice, to still the hammering of his heart and fixed his gaze upon Narg who, a few paces before, appeared to be safe, clinging to Tower’s neck, who refused to set foot upon the ground.

It was the second time in his forty years that the ruddy-faced soldier of the elite troop had been this terrified.

For within that perfect shell, with death running at his side, he felt alone and powerless, just as he had when his beloved had fallen asleep forever in his arms. How could he feel safe when the desperate cries of his men reached his ears?

The calm he had tried to maintain in the face of the sea of possibilities of the most chaotic end to life on earth was deserting him.

'Legends and adventures are only fun in theory,' he thought as he came face to face with that profound evil which neither his sword nor his axe could destroy.

And with the anguish that, by a twist of fate, he found himself within the barrier of light, out of the corner of his left eye, amidst the darkness, a gleam pulsed in bronze.

It could be none other than Celtión, and he, who had sworn to defend Hugnork blood with his life, broke formation.

He leapt from his mount, but the moment he crossed the barrier, his breath froze.

With blue lips and every reddish hair upon his body standing on end, he fell to his knees.

The physical pain made him curl up upon his stomach; the pain of his soul broke him.

The half-minute the assault endured, though it seemed an eternity, gave Narg leisure for something as fleeting and important as surrendering to his fate.

With his arms about Tower’s neck and his left ear resting upon the black fur, he beheld the beating of his old friend’s heart.

It was not wrong to let himself be shielded; it was not wrong that there was nothing he could do, if that was what he had to learn.

Moving forward together to go further was what it was all about: handing over what he could not untangle, because his men would do it for him.

And with the certainty that his life was in the best of hands, he held on until the dark stampede had swept past them and continued on its way.

The light emanating from Tobert’s body lingered for a moment, accompanied by a profound silence that not even the forest vermin dared to disturb, until a chorus of agonised groans reached them.