The Devastation #5

In the heat of the fight, Gwion’s boot struck one of the logs in the bonfire.

Impelled by the slant of the earth, it rolled away.

As it passed, the blaze crept further, and Tobert, who was aiding Maed to his feet, scooped up a handful of earth.

With his palm upturned before his mouth, he closed his ring and little fingers and, as if about to spit, rested the tip of his middle finger upon his thumb.

With his index finger he directed the cloud of dust he blew to extinguish the fire when Celtión, in her own display of magic, raised her arms. Her tunic was open, her bronze hair blowing in the wind, and the flames flared up until they surrounded them and anon reached the trees.

'Come on, lad, it is time to show what you are made of,' said Maed.

Tobert shifted the position of his fingers and pointed at the princess’s belly. Through the thin fabric of the beige dress, three points of the Naamclënt mark, in red, lit up.

'I cannot, I am an agent of Light; so much darkness terrifies me,' replied Tobert, shaking his head and curling up into a ball upon his knees.

Maed beheld his fear, how he trembled, how wearied he appeared, with deep shadows sinking into his eyes. He rent asunder his cloak and, as he covered him with it, said:

'You will not be ready until you understand that, in this life, everything is a balance.'

He drew his sword and ran towards Owin, but halfway there, he had to change course.

Narg was waxing ever more weary; the air was scarce, and he could already feel his heart beating in his head and in the arteries of his neck.

Gwion also slackened his pace; his brother’s movements had distracted him.

He had to ensure, whilst continuing to parry the sword blows, that Celtión was well.

And that moment of distraction gave the king his chance.

The king assailed him. Gwion parried and twisted his body as he returned the blow, but, instead of blocking it, Narg, as if in a dance, spun round and stepped aside. By reason of momentum and the weight of his sword, Gwion overshot and was left at the king’s mercy.

Without aiming, he thrust forward and felt the flesh resist the tip of Santiana. He thrust deeper, with all his body weight, and did not desist until warm blood touched the hilt and his hand.

He drew back the blade with intent to finish him off, even if it hurt. He raised Santiana. He would behead him and bear his head so that the filthy traitors might fear his greatness. To expel his pent-up hatred, he let forth a cry—necessary, deep and barbaric.

The sword was already descending and in the wind he could see the warrior’s chestnut hair when a pair of hands wrapped about his chest and drew him backwards from the ground.

He blinked. Swiftly. Once. Twice. Three times. As if awakening from a drunken stupor or rising from the depths. He returned to himself, to the present, to his centre, and beheld clearly.

Before him a cream-coloured dress was stained red. His legs trembled, as though the earth itself, which had shaken all of Móntria, quailed in sympathy.

He fell to his knees.

The fal l

He rode in the midst of the troop, for it was far from Cloet’s mind to go to the front as his uncle would.

His nose ached, emitting an annoying whistle with every exhalation.

He kept his chin raised, his narrow chest puffed out and his brow furrowed to feign confidence, though within his stomach churned.

He desired to know as much about what was happening as the hundred or so soldiers who had managed to enlist when the commander’s call reached them.

Not much. Just that Tregor had escaped and they had to guard Narg’s arrival in the kingdom.

Arwel’s uplifted hand signalled a halt as they reached the path leading to the heart of the forest where the Cave of Whispers lay hidden.

There they parted. A company consisting solely of Ministerian men, led by Cheas, continued along the path heading north in the hope of intercepting Narg.

The other, with Arwel and the regent king Cloet, along with the fifteen soldiers from Welst, made their way into the trees.

Cloet endeavoured to persuade the commander to continue on horseback; he desired to keep his steed near at hand in case they must take flight.

Yet Arwel, in a brief lesson upon the craft of war, showed him how hard it would be to ride in the gloom amid the thick roots thrusting from the earth and the narrow space 'twixt the trees.

Moreover, he made him perceive how hard it would be to lie hid, should they need to.

They were on foot, drawing near the mouth of the cave where they would leave the horses, when Arwel espied the two loops of rein that Cloet held in his hand.

'Loosen it,' he said, showing him how he did it. 'If it bolts, it could tear thine arm off or, worse, take thee for a ride, and we would have to burn half the kingdom to dispose of thy remains.'

'What is thy mare’s name?' he asked, taking the counsel to heart.

'At Ubberia, Trusta took a spear for me. I decided not to give this one a name.'

'What we do not name does not exist,' he said bluntly. 'Not naming thy comrade-in-arms will not stop thee from grieving his sacrifice, and thou wilt regret it when thou dost not know what to carve on his gravestone.'

Arwel hearkened to him with the same heed he would have paid to Gregor or Kuopio, but even with the darkness closing in upon them, he was on the verge of striking a soldier to his right who was endeavouring to light torches.

The clang of armour, the sporadic whinnies and the rustling of leaves with every step the troop took were noise enough.

If Owin and Gwion were present, they would already be aware of the company’s approach, yet at least he desired their positions to remain concealed.

After they had tied the horses at the post by the cave entrance, Cloet took the long, heavy double-edged sword from the saddle and paused when he saw Arwel finish scouting the area; with a whistle, two gestures and his sword raised above his head, he ordered the troop to form a barrier with their shields at the front to advance northwards.

They were not there; not a single trace of their comrades, least of all Narg, and Arwel did not know whether to give thanks or curse when he beheld a glimmer in the distance.

Beside the majestic specimen floating in a vast crimson pool by the side of the dusty road, Cheas ordered them to dismount.

His teeth ground as he clutched his stomach to control the rage that sight stirred in him.

He approached the first soldier, who was writhing in pain as if in a dream.

He carefully removed his breastplate. Then he went to the next and found the same.

Perfectly round purple patches stained their skin and oozed a foul-smelling yellowish slime.

He was still crouching, striving to ease the soldier’s anguish, when a buzzing sound and the light from the white gem hanging about his neck gave him warning. His cry was sufficient to save his comrades ere the flames could reach them.

They advanced in battle array. Cloet’s arm beside Arwel’s and the wall of shields before them, when, from whence the reflection had come, a burst of fire engulfed them.

A roar behind him and the hollow rumble of the hooves told the commander that the cavalry had fled. Between the shoulders and through the gap in the shields, he saw Narg battling Gwion and, before he could react, silhouetted in the light of the bonfire, he recognised Celtión watching them.

'By the edge of Tyr’s sharp sword, fall back!' he cried as the burning log rolled towards them, setting everything ablaze in its path.

Both before Cheas’s squad beside the road and Arwel and Cloet’s within the forest’s heart, the flames rose. Ere they towered above them, they beheld Maed running desperately toward Narg.

A fresh gust swept the orange curtain aside; Celtión stood between his father and the sword.

The smoke engulfed them until, amidst the grey mist and suffocating heat, Narg fell to his knees.

'Celtión!' Cloet’s heart-rending cry was swallowed up by the void.

Kneeling, with Celtión in his arms, Gwion wept inconsolably, a stifled groan rising from his throat.

The lovers, cursed by a forbidden love, after five years, beheld each other anew as if she were not bearing a mortal wound.

Where the air, from the moment they touched, waxed warmer, with a scent of wildflowers that filled the surroundings.

In despair, Maed clutched his head, running his fingers through his hair as if to tear it out. He beheld his brother covered in blood, his princess turning pale, his king devastated upon the ground, and he did not know what to do.

Gwion cast aside his sword to take her hand. He could not recall the precise moment it came to pass, the split second she gave herself up to save his life.

'Please, do something!' he implored of Owin, who, stiff as a board, merely shook his head in reply. There was nothing he could do in the face of the depth of the wound.

'Thou must possess some manner of spell. Come, my love, thou canst not abandon me thus,' he said to Celtión, hoping that, as a priestess, she might wield the power to cheat death.

Surrendering to the weight of his body, Narg let his buttocks drop. With his back hunched and his legs spread apart, he stared at his hands, drenched in his daughter’s blood. The omen had come to pass, yet it was not a shadow that devoured him, but his own folly.

Where does a father find the strength to live with the murder of a daughter? he wondered. He had endured the separation, barely, but knowing she was dead by the sword his beloved wife had given him, he felt incapable.