The Devastation #4

He halted a few paces from him, right beside the bonfire and the swooning Celtión, whom he did not even deign to glance at.

'Owin, thou must not do this; we can yet save thee. Thou art good, I know it. Thy humanity must outweigh the destiny thou bearest upon thy shoulders,' he said as he drove Santiana into the ground. 'You two, enough!' he shouted, incensed.

It took Maed but a second’s hesitation for Gwion, a head and a half taller, to subdue him with a stranglehold. And, his eyes sparkling, he turned to Narg.

'We know the truth,' he said, thrusting Maed aside so that he stumbled and struck Celtión with his boot.

He slipped his hand between his breastplate and chainmail and drew forth the letter.

'The great game of shadows ends here,' he declared, crumpling it up and hurling it at him.

Narg was compelled to close his eyes, lest his sorrow be betrayed. His daughter’s handwriting and seal had at length dispelled all doubt of her perfidy.

'It is the Lodge that hath planted that foolish notion within your heads,' said Narg. 'Let us not suffer the darkness to overcome us, lords. I am your king; do you intend to rise up against me?'

Gwion clenched his teeth. There was naught on earth he desired more than to believe him. For a moment, he felt like the eternal lover falling for the lies of a serial manipulator. But his princess’s word was proof, and he had witnessed the ropes being tightened, ready to raise the curtain.

In response, a gesture—his head tilted to one side and his eyebrows arched—let Narg know that if it had to be done, he would do it.

For his part, Owin was on the verge of giving himself up. He wished with all his being that his king could save him. But Maed’s words reopened an old wound.

'Since when have you been friends with this oddball and defending him, Gwion?' he said. 'Windar and the capricious princess are the queens of manipulation. It is not Narg, it is the damned Owin, and it always has been.'

'Good and evil are as relative as the side of the road where the sun shines. It is not that the shadow of the field cannot flourish; they simply have not been allowed to,' Owin heard his own voice echoing in his head.

That oddball, damned Owin, he repeated to himself as the night of his birthday came to mind and he savoured the vile potion Windar had forced him to drink. Celtión was right; they had desired to stay his hand, for he, with his great power, was the sole one able to hold back the darkness.

He burst out laughing to give his mind time to work, and he knew which thread to pull: there are no weapons more powerful than words and knowing the enemy, and of them, he knew all too well.

'Maed, are you not weary of being ever in the wrong?

' he said, tilting his head as he puckered his cheeks and drew a mocking smile.

'Face it, you shall never be as great as Gwion.

You are but the crippled pup walking in the shadow of greatness.

And thou,' he turned to Narg, 'think thyself the most puissant when thou hast no notion of the deeds we have wrought upon the battlefield to make thy name a legend, only to discover that thou art but a puppet.

As he paused, without losing his smile, he shrugged his shoulders whilst tossing his black hair.

'How sad!' he boasted with the utmost sarcasm, curling his lips. 'Besides, to be a king thou needest a throne, and Cloet is sitting on thine right now.'

He cast a glance from one to the other and perceived that he had hit the mark. Demoralisation paralysed Maed and Narg. He did not need magic to overcome them; he observed and savoured the sensation of the wound he had inflicted. Chest puffed out, content, he turned towards Gwion.

'My friend, if we slay him here, he shall become a martyr and the empire shall be left adrift. There be several heads to be cut off. We must root them out utterly, or they shall become entrenched in power and try again.'

He leaned forward, in a half-bow, to address his king.

'If thou believest thyself innocent, surrender, accompany us to Old Minister and answer to the regent king, Cloet Munork, so that he may absolve thee of all guilt.'

Absolve? Surrender? Regent King? In that order, the barrage of questions threw Narg’s mind into disarray, and, enraged, he glared at Santiana.

He might have thought it was not magic, but a ruse to cover up the mutiny of a handful of men, like dark hordes, trying to keep the fruits of his labour for themselves.

He might have distrusted Maed, suspected that Cheas, Bartón, Arwel or Gregor were involved and had sold themselves to Lerg, to Windar, to the night.

He might have permitted his dread of betrayal to overwhelm him.

He might have, yet he did not. In his desperation not to fall back into that black hole, not to set foot in that swampy forest again and let that shadow he knew so well slay him, he found that hollow in the midst of his chest that spake to him without words, the one that showed him the way.

He was seething with rage, but for the first time he could govern it, for he had learnt to navigate that narrow path that threatened the precipice. And instead of fearing the fall, he leapt.

Owin could not save himself; he would not surrender. The darkness had settled enough to leave him only one path, and to Santiana—to the reflection of her polished metal—he pleaded for her to light the right one. With two strides he reached him, and with his first move, he disarmed him.

'Cloet, Regent King Cloet,' he recalled, and the fire in his soul lit up the tunnel of his mind.

If he had lost his crown, he only hoped to live long enough to annihilate Windar and leave his kingdom in the hands of his loyal Council.

He had nothing against his nephew; he held him in high regard, but he was certain the young man lacked the drive to avoid repeating his own history.

And in repeating history, he sensed the mockery of fate. This was the second of his loyal sorcerers he had to slay, and that was what he was thinking when he cast a sidelong glance: Tower had moved forward to block Gwion’s path.

'If thou speakest to me, I will kill thee,' growled the eldest of the Gerinsons, as he tugged at the reins to pull him out of the way, but as soon as he managed it, he found Maed, standing beside Celtión’s body, threatening her with his sword.

'Do not make me, brother. Let the light prevail.'

Narg returned to his task, on which he was struggling to concentrate.

Three thrusts in quick succession, and he seemed to be fanning the air before the elusive Owin who, even unarmed, dodged the cold metal.

For a moment he entertained the thought of letting him defend himself, so that they might fight like the warriors they were in a fair and honourable battle; but of what honour was he thinking when, from behind him, a gust of wind tangled his hair and made his cloaks billow.

Tobert’s warning cry was not enough. Maed was already flying through the air, crashing into the bushes, for Celtión had awakened and was standing with the young wolf’s sword in her hand.

'Owin, my lord!' cried the priestess.

Narg stood paralysed. Maed had warned him.

He had already seen it, and yet he did not know how to react.

One of the greatest fears of his life was suffering betrayal at the hands of one of his own, of those he considered friends.

Yet never, not even for a fleeting moment, had he imagined a scenario wherein his beloved daughter would don the executioner’s robe.

His Celtión, his little girl, was betraying him, and he, without knowing why she was doing it, blamed himself.

It was easier for him to bear that burden than to blame her.

The sorcerer seized the moment and shoved Narg. With a small ball of energy in his palm, he drew the sword towards his hand; it flew as if suspended by an invisible thread.

The tables had turned; it was Narg who was defending himself. Blade against blade, he retreated before Owin’s onslaughts, until he managed to turn on his heel. With his arms outstretched like wings, he bent his knees to dodge a thrust and, from the ribs, shoved him.

With Owin sprawled upon the ground, Gwion sprang into action and lunged at his king.

Santiana sparkled as it parried the attacks of Gwion’s sword, which Narg had ordered to be forged from the same metal as his own.

'What on earth am I doing?' thought Gwion as he realised why Narg avoided looking him in the eye and was breaking the very first rule that he, as his personal instructor, had taught him.

It was not because he feared his essence would flash across galaxies—if the Narg he admired feared nothing—it was because he did not wish to hurt him.

He pondered ceasing the conflict. 'War only calls for destruction,' he recollected the words Narg had employed to justify his passivity towards Ubberia.

Yet the voice of his princess, imploring him to defend her from evil, heartened him to persevere.

He must show her how deeply he loved her and what he was prepared to do in her defence.

For several minutes they tested each other’s strength.

It felt so much like a training exercise, and it pained them both equally that it was not.

The battle was evenly matched. Experience versus youth put on a spectacle.

The king was proud of his apprentice, whom he had chosen above all others to inherit his military secrets, whom he had never thought he would have to face, and at that moment, in the present, he regretted it.