The Arrival #3

What a smile lit up his greying visage when Tower showed him he was ready and stood firm upon his hind legs.

It was then that the Raven King, still perched in the stirrups, pressed his calves against the horse’s flanks, secured Santiana in his right hand and tightened the reins in the other.

He pulled hard upwards to signal him to rise onto his hind legs.

The bear, daunted, retreated a few paces and Narg slackened the reins. He spread his legs and pressed them together to signal the steed to gallop forward at full speed. Meanwhile, as Tower, with every muscle in his body tensed, kicked up dust as he ran, Narg raised his hand again.

The speed he achieved in those few paces permitted him to pass alongside the beast, which missed its swipe and took the full force of the four pecks from the ravens that had arrived as reinforcements right upon its snout.

Behind the bear, Narg pulled the reins and Tower came to a halt.

He switched the reins and sword between his hands and resumed the charge.

He was about to bring his knees together once more when Tower, sensing his intention, lunged towards the bear, which was striving to shake off the ravens.

As he passed, and before it could turn, Santiana tore open its jugular.

The roar was followed by a crash. Narg held his breath, lest the metallic scent of the blood warming his shoulder should summon old memories, and, without pausing for a moment to rejoice, whilst wiping the blade with his glove, he charged into the forest.

'Get down on your knees,' Gwion ordered with a shout, and, seeing his brother’s hesitation, thrust his sword forward. 'Maed, grow up already and do not make things difficult. Get down on your knees!'

If he would not comply willingly, he would make him do so by force, Gwion thought, and swallowed hard.

He did not like any of what was about to transpire, though he knew it was the right thing to do.

Owin had managed to stay their hand, but the fact that Maed had appeared with Celtión in his arms only served to confirm the truth of the note.

He had to protect them, all of them—his brother, his friend, his beloved.

In a flash he pondered what he was willing to do for each of them.

He had already accepted the fact that he would commit regicide to save Owin and humanity.

But if Maed was under the control of the shadows, would he be capable of killing him to protect his princess?

'By the sword we live, by the sword we die,' the commander quoted to himself, certain that his brother’s wish would be for the innocent to prevail, even if it took a part of his soul with it.

Time was running out. He was certain that Gregor would have helped Tregor break that curse which had nearly annihilated them, had it not been for the protective barrier Owin had managed to form around them.

The adrenaline surging through his veins was just as it had been ere a charge.

He fought the urge to run to his beloved to ensure she was unhurt.

He could not see Narg, only the silhouette of Kuopio among the trees.

His palms were clammy, rendering the leather hilt of his blade unpleasantly slick.

If there were a moment to act, it was now, ere the moisture seeped through the burlap and contaminated the Toronjil and valerian powder.

Using his fingertips, he opened the small pouch and held it in the palm of his hand. He turned his head over his shoulder, to his right, seeking support.

'Do it. If Narg arrives, we shall not stand a chance against the three of them,' said Owin as he stepped out of the shadows where he had been hiding to launch a surprise attack if necessary.

Convinced, he switched the bag to his other hand and felt its weight.

He moved it up and down, calculating the force needed to hit the target.

Maed merely watched, for neither his instinct nor his experience of war alerted him to the danger.

This was his brother; there was no chance he would harm him.

Gwion, being left-handed, stepped forward with his right foot and twisted his body backwards to gather momentum. He raised his hand above his shoulder and hurled it.

Maed’s senses sharpened; his pulse was slow and heavy, his pupils dilated in an instant, and just as the brown bag spun through the air, about to crash into him, he ducked.

The projectile continued its arc through the air, though a little of the powder fell onto his frizzy hair and made him feel dizzy.

Tobert recognised the scent and covered his nose, but he failed to warn Kuopio, who, hearing the voices, was approaching from among the trees and took the full impact upon his breastplate, instantly falling into a deep sleep.

The young sorcerer, frightened and far from ready for battle, crawled upon all fours until he was hidden behind a bush.

Narg and Tower halted when they beheld Kuopio fall, but ere he could dismount, Tobert poked his head out and gave him warning.

Before him, two figures clad in the armour of his Council and the cloak of his kingdom sent a shiver down his spine.

He squeezed his eyelids shut to block out that scene, a replica of his nightmare.

He already knew that Owin was the bearer of darkness, but why was Gwion, his beloved warrior, Odín’s Wolf, betraying him?

The betraya l

Maed bit his lip to swallow the absurd question of why he was attacking him, when before his eyes, Owin, his pale face hidden behind his thin hair, and the princess at his feet, gave him the answer.

His brother, his role model, the one he admired most, approached him on guard, repeating over and over that he should stay away from Celtión, and he, with a plea in his heart not to have to use it, drew his sword.

'Ask, harken, we have discovered the truth: Perkolon was naught but a volume penned by Colquen himself. Thou and I must stay their hand from loosing Fenrir, for,' he declared, spreading his arms to proclaim peace, 'brother, we are Odín’s Wolves.'

'I already know that,' he retorted, and, as if he could kindle them at will, his eyes burst into blue galaxies.

Maed turned his gaze aside, not through fear, but because the flash of his brother’s essence had roused within him the longing to return home, to that place whose whereabouts he knew not, yet which Heijasanam, the Soul Mirror, had taken it upon himself to recall to Maed’s mind.

He felt a stranger in another’s raiment, and he navigated a sea of feelings that tightened his breast and bent his back.

Such a burden to bear, and all he desired was to run free once more alongside his brother.

In that maelstrom of memories, of what he had known within the flesh that housed him, he realised that his instinct had ever sensed the darkness within Owin.

Even with Maltón’s endeavours to set him on the true path, even with his own clumsy attempt to include him among the troops—an attempt he disguised as scorn to soften him and make him cease being that coarse, dark laboratory rat.

Narg desired to save him, yet if he had succeeded in making one as pure and upright as his brother walk the tightrope between light and darkness, he would never forgive himself.

He clenched his lower abdomen and sealed one of the gates of his body so that the energy would not escape him.

Contained, he let it flow upwards. It crossed his stomach and his blood began to boil.

It rose through his lungs and instantly his panting grew intense; and, upon reaching his throat, he growled.

He felt at ease. He did it again and so, as soon as he leapt before Celtión with his grip tightened and his head bowed, he fixed his gaze upon Owin and lunged at him.

His essence surged forth and overcame the darkness of the forest. His silvery eyes made out the elongated shadows cast by the silhouettes upon the leaves carpeting the ground, the play of whitish rays with which the moon, one day from being full, embraced the earth and filtered through the canopy of the trees surrounding them, the nooks and crannies sheltering the animals alerted by his presence.

He heard the crackling of the fire between them, the birth of each spark, the brush of the tongues as they danced, the wood creaking as the flames penetrated it, the water of the river flowing half a kilometre away lapping against the bank with a steady, slow rhythm.

And it was there, in that lulling trance, that he sensed the tip of Gwion’s boot sliding across the ground, the earth beneath his feet giving way, and he knew he would be struck.

He stayed his course just as Gwion’s long arms thrust him, yet he kept his balance and, ere he was aware, he traded blows with his brother.

Owin beheld them dance, panting, advancing and retreating.

At times, Maed’s visage was lit by blue eyes; at others, silver dominated.

And in the back-and-forth, he perceived that Gwion was endeavouring to disarm his brother, whilst the younger man was resolved to thrust him aside so he might assail him.

He was about to stay their hands. What purpose did their strife serve, when he had agreed to go there but to remove Narg from the path and await Windar’s coming, that she might slay the girl ere he ended his own life?

'If there is no body, there is no beast,' he thought once more, steeling his resolve, and craned his neck towards the distance, waiting for the Queen Grandmother to arrive.

'Are you enjoying the show?' The voice came from his left.

His king, blending into the darkness, was dismounting his black steed.

Startled, with the expression of a child caught in the midst of a prank, he drew his sword.

But when the light fell upon Narg’s face, Owin was surprised to find it neither contorted nor in a fit of rage; on the contrary, his movements radiated peace whilst his face implored for mercy.