The Devastation #8

'If it worked in Lepontia, it must work here,' he thought as he raised Narg’s hand so that he might behold himself in Santiana’s reflection.

With the first ragged breath that restored the king, Maed searched his brother’s galaxy-like eyes for a sign of understanding and found him paralysed.

With legs apart and shoulders hunched, standing beside Owin, he fixed his tear-filled eyes upon Celtión’s perpetual pallor.

Cleft into two equal halves: his essence, mirrored within his eyes, declared him ready to fight; his mortal side entreated him to sit in a corner and piece back together the fragments wherein his soul lay shattered.

'Ask!' Maed shouted.

Gwion blinked slowly. Amidst the savage blizzard, the crackling of the flames and the surges of Owin’s attack, he could hear him. Maed took a deep breath so that his voice would travel like a tunnel as he stared at him.

'There was the highest branch, next to the stars, with arms outstretched, one foot forward. Balance. Light and darkness,' Maed intoned the first lines of the lullaby.

He paused and perceived that Gwion drew breath in short, ragged gasps.

The lump in his throat did choke him, and no matter how much he puffed out his chest until his shoulders touched his earlobes, it was not enough.

He continued singing; this time it had to be he who rescued him, who gave him the breath he lacked.

'From the sands of time, a single drop was enough for the crack. What should not have been, came to pass, and with a snap, the thread of fate broke.'

He beheld him shake his head from side to side until his heavy, limp hair veiled his visage, like that unconscious reflection of his other body. He was succeeding, and as he helped Narg to stand, he proceeded with the next part of the song.

'The void made its way, the cosmos clad in emerald green.'

Within Gwion’s mind, his brother’s voice began to mingle with the memory of Milkron. 'Oh! Distant Fate, who buries me in the darkness. Do not leave me. How I wish I could fly.'

He felt once more as a frightened child being comforted, when a third, delicate voice sounded as if coming from the back of his skull. 'Hear my voice, my son. Fear not. From the cradle of the breeze, thou shalt be born.'

He sighed as tears washed away the dried blood of his beloved, and with melancholy stealing his smile, he sang aloud:

—'The first breath gave her life and the final journey began.'

He continued to sing softly, lest his mind be overcome by doubt. 'There was a path, far from the spring. The tower stood tall, gravel at its feet. A blossoming dawn. Glory. The harps of history.'

He searched within himself and around him for a reason to move that was not simply to run in fear.

He beheld Narg clinging to the shoulder of his brother’s blurred silhouette.

He would not do it for his king. That was the limit of his loyalty.

He felt a fool for having served him, because after him another would come, and everything would be the same again.

Were it not for the darkness, the man would set about destroying the world under the banner of salvation.

The flames, the thick smoke, the pulses of light Owin emitted beside him, the remnants of Tobert’s barrier where the last objects bounced off—it all weighed heavily upon him.

All were offering their lives, and he but desired to behold the princess who, with her eyes wide open and lifeless, gazed up at the sky.

He had believed himself to be the chosen one, and yet he had not even been able to save his beloved—how could he possibly save humanity?

'Hear my voice, my son. Do not stop. From the balance of opposites, you shall move forward.'

Once more, the lullaby sung by Maed reached him and, though his figure was still blurred, he beheld the light in his silver eyes. He would do it for him and no other, so that they might return to the only place he desired to be at that moment: home.

'The path became flesh, and his walk was of blood,' sang Gwion, whilst gesturing to his brother to throw his sword a few paces away from them.

Maed wasted no time, though he yearned to run to him and embrace him.

He rolled upon the ground, seized the sword, and in the very instant he hurled it, he sensed the presence.

Yet prone upon the ground, he scanned the bushes beyond the flames toward the path where the mountain bear had set his ambush.

His eyes sharpened and he recognised them: brownish, knee-high, with the golden buckle crossing over on the outside.

They would prevail. He smiled. He had no doubts.

The raven Narg and the wolf Maed met and stood back-to-back.

The king bit the tip of his middle finger to tear off his gauntlet and, with his index finger and thumb in his mouth, whistled.

The warrior looked for Tobert and communicated using the sign language he had seen Salvetja employ: with his hands, he mimed a ball being thrown into the fire by the roadside.

The young man understood, gathered a handful of leaves from the bush and, as he squeezed them, created a safe path through the flames with a thin curtain of greenish water.

Gwion, his judgement clouded, heightened by grief, not knowing exactly what he was doing, gave Owin two small pats upon the shoulder and urged him to hold his ground. He pointed the blade of his sword forward and ran towards the beast.

Tower answered the summons. Narg, without awaiting his full halt, seized the reins and a tuft of the mane, and with a leap, as though he were twenty years of age anew, mounted the saddle.

With a half-smile, he thanked Owin for his devotion.

Maintaining that power for so long was wearing him down, but he was now ready to help him, to save him, as he had promised.

Through the safe passage Tobert created amidst the flames, with a single leap, Cheas appeared and his soldiers managed to pass through before it closed.

Maed waited for him to look at him to organise the attack, but he had to give him a reasonable amount of time.

The young warrior’s honey-coloured eyes, with his back to Owin and facing the beast, could scarcely contain themselves within their sockets.

To steel his courage, the small pebble of his charm floated between his index finger and thumb.

The pulses of light from Owin’s assault waxed faint.

His last reserves of strength were burning away, and the gigantic shadow sensed it.

It tilted its head, as if taking pity upon him, and took a step forward.

The sorcerer closed his eyes and endeavoured to conjure a new memory.

His master’s hands held the little thrush-like sparrow that had fallen from the nest after he had failed in his training.

'Do not weep, and learn to accept that thou dost destroy everything that thou touchest.' A purple light enveloped the bird and, with the explosion, bathed his face in entrails. He opened his eyes, bewildered, for that was not what had occurred, nor were those his master’s words.

On that day, Maltón had instructed him to guide souls to the other side of the veil.

Some unseen force within him was manipulating him.

His pulse quickened. He had utterly lost command and his assaults had mutated into a red so vivid it seemed as though he were bleeding out, and he felt his soul burning.

They struck squarely against the beast’s mist-shrouded chest, which swelled, fed.

The consequence was immediate: drawn from the very heart of the forest, wandering souls crawling across the earth began to arrive.

They stained the night air with purples and violets as they fluttered around the silhouette of darkness.

At full gallop, Narg, with Santiana ready to strike, did not halt. The two red dots indicated where. 'It is but another battle, like any other,' he told himself, clearing his mind—a vital weapon for victory, even as Ralf had taught him.

Owin abandoned his assault. The unfathomable darkness he beheld when he blinked filled him with terror, and he hastened to the only place where he felt he would be safe. Behind him, like a firefly floating halfway up, a delicate albino light flickered.

Gwion brought his boots to a halt, leaned forward and gripped the hilt with both hands to cut through the shadow, but he failed to touch it.

He would not even have been able to do anything with his sword when, from within the charred body of the beast, accompanied by an echo of laughter, a thread of shadow broke free.

It was enough for it to brush against him for Gwion, with a cry of pain, to tear the armguard from his armour.

In desperation, he tore away the bandages Owin had applied.

The veins in his arm were purple and the gashes left by the fangs of that fierce bear from Ubberia radiated heat.

At first he thought it was an infection, but when the veil before his eyes turned black, he surrendered, as if there were nothing else to be done.

He turned. His gaze fixed upon nothingness, his eyes lifeless, his lips blue, and pale as death, he stood sideways. He stepped forward with his right leg and, in a fighting stance, waited for his king.

Behind a pile of logs that would not catch fire, Bartón and Bolet were hiding. The flames were reflected in the elite soldier’s shiny bald head. His loyalty to his king prevented him from retreating, even as Bolet tried to persuade him.

'Think, you useless baldie, which of your little friends have not been invited to this party?'

Bartón took stock: Maed and Gwion were in the thick of the battle. On the other side, he had seen Cheas leap into the flames. Kuopio lay in the bushes, either unconscious or dead. To his right, deep in the heart of the forest, they had left the traitor Arwel behind, alongside Cloet.