The Devastation #7

Arwel hearkened attentively, somewhat nettled by his lack of courage.

Behind the bruise that served as a mask about his eyes, he could discern fear at every sound that drew near.

He was partly right, and like one who, once the game has begun, shuffles the cards and deals again, he planned how they should proceed.

With swords and axes they might trim the younger hedges that were not yet ablaze, thus barring the fire’s path.

Then, once they were all drenched, they would array themselves to clear a passage and, one by one, cut down the burning branches, taking turns as the heat engulfed them.

Cheas, his eyes narrowed and the whitish stone pendant between his fingers, analysed the possibilities and the tools at his disposal.

He thought of taking the dagger strapped to his forearm and skinning the beast to use its pelt as a cloak as he leapt over the flames.

But he felt he must not defile it—neither the divine weapon nor the monumental creature, which was in no way to blame.

Instead, he requested the cloaks of his fellows.

He would fasten the ends to fashion bags, and, cupping his hands, they would endeavour to gather as much earth as they could—earth that was not whirling about them and stinging their eyes.

Little by little, they would smother the flames, for he had to make his way through; Maed and Narg needed him.

The scenes both sides beheld amidst the flames, and the ever-thickening smoke, made their hearts sink.

The entire forest, that place which had provided them with so much refuge in their youth, seemed to have donned the garb of hell for the occasion, for, though they had no certainty, they knew that the end was drawing near.

The Arriva l

The four feathers rose several metres above them and remained suspended; then, the air became electrified. The wolves felt it in their chests, Narg in every scar on his body, Tobert in his bones, and Owin, on the verge of succumbing, in his soul.

From the earth, in the midst of the makeshift battlefield, red and with a screech, the first spark was born. At the highest point of the starry dome, blue and with a crackle, the second.

Drawn by invisible bonds, they united in a violet flash that gave birth to a thin crack, which began to suck in with rhythmic pulses. Whirling above their heads, earth, branches, fire, and even Tobert’s sword, which Maed was wielding, floated up to be absorbed.

Narg clung to Santiana as Maed threw himself forward to shield him. Gwion pushed the princess aside and, as he rose and dodged logs, ran to protect Owin.

The feathers gently advanced towards the crevice, and as soon as the first one entered, a prolonged shriek announced its arrival.

Tobert’s heart yearned to burst from his breast, even as he longed to flee the inferno that unfolded.

He pressed his back a little further to slip between the prickly branches of the bush that concealed him.

His knees pressed against his stomach as he cursed his master in every tongue he knew for leaving him alone, when he beheld long black legs approaching.

The rustling of the leaves about him and the warm breath from the nostrils of the snout in his tangled, great curls reached him, and he let himself be found.

Tower, the magnanimous Maltón, the pupil of the legendary Colquen, was looking for him.

From Naamclënt, to Naamclënt, he needed him, and he answered his call.

Cautiously he poked his head out and beheld the last feather enter.

The current of air shifted, and the cleft began violently to spew forth that which it had absorbed.

Tobert remained concealed, yet with the black steed’s reins in one hand, with the other he conjured a transparent shield to defend them all.

Along with the logs, stones, leaves, and everything else the fissure expelled, a foul, suffocating mist accompanied it. In Maed’s protective embrace, Narg could not suppress the retching, and after the third wave, he vomited the little he had left in his stomach.

From the fissure a shrill scraping of heavy chains began to be heard, coming from the dark place on the other side of the veil. It drew ever closer with the distant echo of a splash within a cave until a crimson glow shone and two points took shape.

It had arrived; it was inevitable, and the absence of fear surprised Owin. He preferred to be there rather than face eternal doubt, to resolve once and for all the uncertainty of whether he or his king would be the beast’s vessel.

The first thing to emerge was a long, incorporeal snout, formed of shadows. A colossal paw emerged, then the other, and the earth, with a cry of pain, cracked apart.

Half its body was forth when the fissure began to close from the sky to the earth, and from the ground to the clouds.

The royal sorcerer studied the scene. Above their heads, Tobert’s protection acted as a buffer; in front, Gwion was his shield; a few paces away, Narg was vomiting and Maed was holding his hair.

If they were to do aught, it had to be anon, and he took the vanguard.

'The fanfare already sounds; it is time to march,' he said to Gwion, gently pressing him aside.

The unconsecrated swords would be nothing more than trinkets in the face of the dark immensity.

He was tempted to take the easy way out; he knew how, he had the means, but it would mean making the beast’s task easier if he were the one who had to contain it.

Windar had been mistaken in one respect when she had disguised their hiding as a prank to teach him how to use forbidden spells.

She had given him the power of knowledge, which gave him the ability to choose. And he did.

'Midgard is a place of scarce magic,' he thought as he searched the devastated forest for the source that would provide him with enough energy to counter the darkness and close the portal.

It had to be a true sacrifice, something so significant that it would allow him to cast the spell without burning his soul.

Where the few remaining bushes were not ablaze, he found the young Tobert and Tower by his side.

He would suffice; the steed’s fierce blood was perfect for transmuting the spell.

He stared at him intently. He would summon within himself the voice with which he had commanded the bear of Ubberia to offer itself as a sacrifice, but before he could give the order, the black eyes locked onto his own.

He needed no connection, nor did he need to enter his mind, nor hear him speak to recognise what he experienced: patience and will, understanding and kindness, wisdom and serenity.

He did not realise that the eyes that reminded him of his master were in fact his own, but in that clear gaze he could see his own soul and remembered what love was, for he felt once more the love that Maltón had always professed for him. Warm and patient, even in his failures.

'Love,' he thought with conviction as the warmth of the delicate gift Miar had given him revived in his pocket. He placed the flower within his mouth, for that would be the essence of his spell: light, love, faith.

He recalled every memory with his master, and with his image in mind, he swore not to fail.

But to activate it, he needed more of that sensation coursing through his veins.

He concentrated to feel Narg’s reassuring hand upon his shoulder once more, and behind him came Gregor’s guiding voice, encouraging him.

With a smile, he thought he saw Arwel giving him instructions, and Bartón and Kuopio at his side preparing their axes to attack alongside him, whilst Gwion would surely watch his back and Cheas would be ready to deliver the final blow.

Even, Odín save him, he sought out Maed’s mischievous gaze within himself, telling him that all would be well.

Each of his comrades was with him, in his mind, just as they were every time they leapt into battle and placed their lives in his hands.

He composed himself to cast the spell toward the fissure. His body emitted undulating bursts of orange energy that he gathered in the palm of his hand, yet he had to change his target: the fissure, at the very point of opening, closed as the long tail emerged.

The silhouette of the colossal beast stood upon its hind legs and towered above the trees. With the form of a wolf, the smoke from the fire encompassed it as if it were made of matter, but the only thing that seemed tangible was the fiery eyes floating in the unfathomable shadow.

It extended a claw and was about to take its first step when Owin’s ball of energy struck it. Waves of light in the shape of meteors forced it back.

Owin was satisfied and proud of himself, yet he sensed that, unless he received aid ere long, this would be his final act and spell. Without losing his concentration, he turned his head in search of support.

A tidal wave shook Maed’s ribs. He already knew the beast and thought he could recall the edge of those fangs grazing his silvery back the last time they crossed paths, in another realm, in another life.

The ragged breathing of his king in his arms made his skin crawl.

It was not just the savage danger mere metres away; he feared it was imminent that his king would suffer another of his episodes and that he would not have the warrior raven to fight by his side.

He must resolve this, ensure that Narg recovered and that his brother joined swords with them once more to triumph.

For, though he did not know how to face the beast in the human body it had taken, he knew there could be no solution unless the Raven fought alongside his Wolves.