The Arrival #2

With Tower down upon all fours, Narg examined Celtión’s well-being.

To his left, he beheld her mounted, leaning forward, the hood of her thick velvet robe covering her head.

He was certain she had been left outside the protection of Tobert, but she seemed to be all right.

Perhaps it was true that Frey’s blessing upon the high priestess prevented the darkness from harming her.

He turned somewhat in the saddle and beheld his red-haired counsellor, who, with one hand raised, signalled that he was unharmed, though he was still striving to catch his breath, kneeling upon the dusty road.

A few paces distant, Tobert had kindled a torch, and beside Maed, who held the reins of both horses, they were ministering to the wounded.

Only six of the twenty soldiers remained mounted; five had vanished and the rest drew but the faintest breath.

With his reins clenched, Narg surveyed the scene.

The night-time road, encompassed by a forest stained red with the soldiers’ cloaks strewn everywhere, and the resemblance of that scene to the memory of the worst day of his life, upon the field of Kerkion, set his nerves on edge.

He looked at his hands. They were not stained; he had not been the executioner, and yet, in his crown and in his blood, he felt the weight of those unfortunate lives in peril upon his conscience.

If that was the case, if he did not know what that attack had been, how were they to defend themselves?

What did Odín expect him, a mere mortal, to do in the face of such ferocity?

That glimpse of an attack was proof that they were losing the fight before it had even begun.

He sensed they wished to delay his arrival at the kingdom and, though he could not find a way to defend his people from the calamities they might be suffering, he refused to dwell on it.

He had to hurry; they were so close, some twenty minutes’ full gallop from the northern entrance to the kingdom.

He turned Tower’s back to the road to give the order to continue; later he would send the troops to tend to the fallen whom Tobert had managed to calm and who were now sleeping.

He raised his right arm and raised his voice so they could hear him, but Maed, with a whistle and a gesture with both arms as if cutting through the air, signalled him to be quiet.

'Do you hear that?' he murmured.

Narg waited a second, his eyes darting from side to side in an attempt to catch with his ears what the wolf had heard, but there was nothing.

He shook his head whilst shrugging his shoulders, and Maed, slowly, nodded.

It was exactly that: nothing. The silence of the forest could only indicate the danger they were in.

On alert, he scanned for the threat. Celtión remained motionless, leaning forward in the saddle; she tilted her head, awaiting instructions.

Kuopio, from the ground, drew his sword to help himself to his feet.

He was still struggling to breathe, but whatever was about to happen, he could not face it upon his knees.

Maed signalled to Tobert to extinguish the torch, and he did so; and when they were lit only by the night, it happened.

Before they could see it, the prolonged roar that cut through the air made their skin crawl, and the neighing of all the steeds set their hearts racing. For there, upon the narrow dirt track bordered by the forest, standing tall with its sharp claws bared, a huge bear was growling.

Narg, with two loops of Tower’s reins in his left hand, made him turn, but the black steed, upon seeing the beast before them, began to paw the ground again, forcing him to clamp his knees together to keep from falling.

Never in his thirty-nine years, mere minutes before turning forty, had the king of the empire laid eyes on such a creature.

They were merely part of the folklore recounted by the troubadours who, hailing from the northern mountains, spoke of the warrior heroes chosen by Odín to guard the cave where The Oracle dwelt.

He calmed Tower with a rhythmic, measured hissing sound whilst patting his right flank to coax him back to the ground. Glancing to the side, he noted that he was the only one still mounted and beheld Tobert striving to gain hold of a new flask for a spell.

'I did not crown myself king of the empire with magic,' he said over his shoulder.

'But thou hast just saved us with it,' protested Tobert, running his fingers through his curls.

Maed placed a hand upon Tobert’s shoulder to stay his protest and leaned over the princess who had fallen from her steed. Carefully, he opened her tunic to search for hurt, but she appeared unharmed.

'The blow has rendered her unconscious,' he informed Narg as his silver eyes glowed in the darkness; it seemed to be the reason why the beast was blocking their path but not attacking.

'We are on our own,' Kuopio reported. 'The six soldiers have deserted.'

'If they would slay me, let them know they shall require far more than that,' Narg declared. 'The Cave is half a kilometre hence. Seek refuge therein; I shall dispatch this creature.'

He had to insist and stand firm in the face of his two companions’ refusal. It had to be him, the raven, who slew her and proved to whoever had conjured her that he was still the bearer of the blood blessed by Odín.

He was not wanting for fear, nor for anger or adrenaline, yet he did draw as deep a breath as he might to still his pulse. To grant them leisure to slip into the wood, he raised his hand and, at his master’s summons, two ravens came flying straight towards the beast’s drooling jaws.

Tobert helped Kuopio to his feet. He was worse off than he let on, his cheeks burning, drenched in sweat, breathing with a wheeze.

Maed stroked his steed’s neck to order it back to the realm.

Then he picked up the knapsack that had fallen from his saddle.

Beneath Celtión, he found Perkolon’s book and tucked it away before lifting her into his arms.

They entered the thicket of the forest. Tobert and Kuopio hid to keep watch upon the road in case the king needed aid.

Maed perceived that, albeit Celtión was slender and of low stature, she weighed more than she ought, yet ere setting her down he must be certain the beast was not accompanied by another.

Then, betwixt the trees, he espied a figure by a campfire.

'Maed, over here.'

He recognised the voice instantly and a broad smile creased his cheeks. With a gesture, he signalled to Tobert which way to go. He desired to warn Kuopio, but the latter seemed mesmerised by Narg’s movements in the distance.

He advanced circumspectly, watching his step lest he stumble, and passed two, three, seven trees until at length he beheld his brother and happiness washed over him. By a small fire, his brother waited stoically, clad in full armour, without his helmet.

With so much to tell him despite the short time they had been apart, he longed to shout that he was not mad and to pull him into an embrace.

He needed to see the pride in his eyes when he told him how much he had helped in finding the truth and that everything would soon be over, that he would be by his side.

Even as he walked, he scrutinised him from head to toe and was awestruck by how the lustrous, sky-blue metal covering his body reflected the flickering light of the campfire at his feet.

He was struck by the fact that his hair was slicked back, as if he had prepared himself to see his beloved again.

He was moved to share that moment, imagining that he would place the young princess in his arms and, when she felt he was beside her, she would open her eyes and they would melt into an endless kiss.

'Stop!' Gwion’s commanding voice made him halt in his tracks. 'Not another step. Leave Celtión and stand back.'

Maed, frozen in place, looked from side to side in search of some threat he might have missed, but found nothing. He turned back to Gwion and perceived that he held a small burlap bag in his right hand.

He shrugged with the simplicity of a child being scolded who does not know why. With the humility of the innocent, he attempted to take a step. The heel of his boot lifted from the ground and Gwion’s voice, more threatening, as he pointed the bag at him, reaffirmed the order.

He obeyed; after all, it was his older brother who asked. Slowly he bent his knees, set Celtión upon the grass, adjusted his cloak, and, as he rose with his arms outstretched, gazed intently at Gwion.

A cold sweat ran down Narg’s back and across his brow.

Perched upon Tower, he shifted from one side of the path to the other, searching for a weak flank that would give him an advantage over the monstrous beast that had slain his ravens and had already managed to fend him off on the two occasions he had tried, on a whim, to stab it.

It seemed impenetrable, like an elite warrior who, despite his rough build, moved with agility and precision.

The voices coming from the forest mingled with the bear’s growl and Tower’s whinny, and pierced the king’s ears. He despaired at not understanding what was happening beyond his vantage point. He needed to slay the beast swiftly and go to meet his warriors.

He stood in the stirrups and leaned his body forward. With both hands, he stroked the warm, oil-slick neck of his steed as he closed his eyes.

'Come on, I know you are afraid, and so am I, just as much as on that day we first met,' he said to himself, like an echo between mountains, hoping his friend Maltón might hear him.

'But let us take this mythical creature by surprise, and go down in history.

Let me be the one to lead you, just as you have done for me for so long. '