The Devastation #9

'Exactly,' he said, seeing him react. 'Gregor must surely have gone after Windar. None of them agreed with you meddling, but you must be lucky enough that she loves you. Be useful. Let your death serve a purpose. Go and protect her.'

His queen loved him, needed him, and he needed nothing more. He asked Odín to protect his king and, with his axe in hand, set off towards the hut.

The soullessness within Gwion’s eyes told them all.

Narg clenched his teeth and tightened his jaw. He did not desire to hurt him, yet he must needs remove him from the path. He hurled Santiana into the air and caught her with his left hand.

Tower accelerated, every muscle tensed, the flames of the dark light reflecting off his black fur.

He put all of himself into it: soul, spirit and blood, to connect and make him listen.

The distance, though short, would suffice.

His eyes shifted from black to brown in the blink of an eye, and with an invisible flash he penetrated his mind.

He found himself with his back to Old Minister’s portcullis. He held out his arms and gazed at his hands. He kissed the raven ring and thought how strange it was to stand upright as a human once more.

In the distance, fleetingly, Odín’s Wolf, with its thick black fur, ran across the green meadow, full of life.

Maltón called to it with a whistle and shouted its name as he tried to step into that perfect canvas of harmony and peace.

But he was prevented from crossing the drawbridge.

On one side, the wolf, growling and baring its gleaming teeth from the wrinkled folds of its muzzle, threatened to rend him to pieces.

On the other, carved into the wood, a long, black symbol joined at the ends by thin lines held his boots fast.

He was lost. Gwion’s soul was trapped there, in his own safe space, and, as its guardian, his wild side was a puppet of the shadows.

A distant yet clear harp arpeggio reached him and the symbol began to emit pulses that weakened the connection. Before being expelled, just in case it might help, he tried.

'Geri, go back to Freki, he needs you,' he whispered, and with his fist wrapped in fire, he struck the ground.

The movement was subtle, imperceptible to any save Maed, who beheld it paralysed as his senses slowed to the rhythm of a string melody his delicate ears discerned.

Tower passed to Gwion’s left just as he stretched his arm out as far as it would go, but before he could reach Narg, he stopped. Santiana swung from bottom to top and thus, with a clean cut, the Raven King felled the young warrior.

In the reflection of Maed’s silver eyes, Cheas beheld Gwion’s sword fly through the air amidst spatters of ruby-red liquid. It plunged point-first into the ground, his forearm still bound to the hilt.

Young Gerinson ran towards his brother; Cheas was about to do the same when he realised that Owin was rushing towards him in desperation.

He did not manage to protect him; the tangle of violet souls unfurled and, swirling, devoured him.

From within the dust storm, mingled with the whistling of the wind, he screamed.

Maed caught his brother ere he might fall to the earth. His eyes were open and he yet drew breath, but his gaze was dead; he did not respond. Maed tore off his breastplate and, with one hand, pulled the chainmail from over his head. He rent the fabric of his tunic to bind it about the stump.

More and more spectres arrived from every corner. Kneeling, Maed with Gwion in his arms, was caught up in the shadowy storm. Narg, anticipating that Tower would bolt, clung to the reins, and with Santiana above his head, standing in the stirrups, he rode into the mist.

Cheas, his squad and Tobert beheld them vanish, and like an electrified bubble of a terrifying purple hue, writhing in undulating masses, the evil condensed. However hard they tried with swords and magic, they could not penetrate it.

The intangible beast stood upright, in the midst, equidistant from both Owin and Narg. It seemed to contemplate them. It shook its head from one to the other, as though deciding whom to possess or devour first.

The Raven King had stayed Tower’s onward march and besought the aid of his wolves.

Yet Maed did not react. He rocked Gwion in his arms and lulled him with the lullaby through his tears.

He turned his head to the right and beheld his sorcerer just as fearful as he was.

It was clear he no longer had the strength to fight, neither against the beast nor against the evil that surely dominated his inner self.

Or was that a reflection of himself he saw in Owin?

he wondered as he began to rub the scar on his forehead.

He was sure it was not, and yet he feared it.

The beast seemed to have made its move. It raised its paw, ready to advance towards Owin, who tried to step back, but the solid wall of spectres stayed him. Then, the reason why his name was legendary made itself heard.

'Over here, thou mire-breathed wretch! Or dost thou fear me?' shouted Narg as he made Tower rise upon two legs.

He succeeded in causing the creature to turn its head toward him, and, once Tower had lowered itself back down, he beckoned to Owin to hasten and take up station behind him. Owin obeyed.

Maed snapped out of his stupor, his skin prickling, though he could not stir. Part of the tangle that formed the walls of the accursed bubble had encircled him with a spell that kept him anchored to the ground, and the unbearable screeching made him dizzy and weak.

Owin could still taste the bitterness of the Miar flower upon his tongue, and, with his king as a shield, he felt so protected that his body once again emitted the glowing orange light. Focused, he set about gathering it in his hands.

Narg had achieved his aim of distracting the beast, but he had also enraged it.

The gigantic claw was closing in on him, and he on it.

Two taps of his heels against Tower’s ribs were enough.

At full gallop, he seized Santiana with both hands, the hilt at the level of his mouth, the blade horizontal, passing right through the middle of his right ear.

He leaned forward slightly, and as the collision loomed, the shadows passed through his body without a second thought.

Surprised, he failed to grasp the reason when the steed, with a prolonged whinny, began to rise.

Narg leapt over its head, and with a double twist in the air, landed crouched on the ground.

He strove with all his might. He thrust, kicked, and struck at the shadowy bonds that held his faithful friend captive, but Santiana, though a deadly blade, cut only through the air. Absorbed in saving Tower, he did not perceive that the beast had advanced.

'My king!' cried Owin, and the Raven King, the rightful heir to Alfredo, would never forget what he saw the moment his gaze met Owin’s: terror made flesh.

He scanned his surroundings in the faint indigo light that tinged the mist about him.

Arms like spectral tendrils descended from the dome of the bubble, holding Tower upside down in the air.

The beast’s silhouette had lost its shape and was condensing around the sorcerer’s body, striving to penetrate him, but the light from his body, which was gradually turning whiter, repelled them.

'Now, or it will be too late.' Maed’s voice broke the moment of pause in which Narg had been caught whilst seeking counsel. 'Kill him!'

He turned again to Owin. He beheld his large, bright black eyes and followed the path of the tear rolling down his cheek. When it reached his lips, he read them. 'Please.'

He was beseeching him, and he would not do so as a punishment, but to save him, lest he be condemned to become the executioner of humanity.

With a single breath, he emptied his lungs and, after filling them again, with the most desperate, fierce and savage cry, with Santiana at his side, he ran towards Owin, who awaited him with a grimace of a smile.

What greater honour than to give his life for humanity, and to do so under his king’s steel.

The tip remained suspended in the air, a few centimetres from his breast, right over his heart, from where the intense opal light emanated.

The shadows thickened and, in a rage, with a growl he had ordered more violet tendrils to descend.

Narg tried to ignore how they swirled about them and gnawed at their cloak and armour.

His blue eyes were flooded with tears and fixed upon Owin’s as he strained.

He pushed with all his might, the tips of his heeled boots slipping upon the ground, yet he could not reach him.

For the glory of his sword, for the crusades he bore like stripes upon his shoulders, for the folk of his realm, for his dead daughter, for his retinue and lineage, he stretched forth his bare right hand to grasp Owin’s shoulder and draw him toward the sword.

He would slay him with an embrace, that he might not feel alone, that he might stand at his side when his father came to claim him as a hero.

For such was Narg: a saviour who burned every last ounce of his energy for the Light.

But upon touching him, he felt Owin’s body boiling, and with clenched teeth he endured the burning.

With the spirits embracing them as if seeking to isolate them a little further from the world and fuse their bodies into a single, indissoluble mass, Narg could see only the pale face of his warrior, illuminated by the light from his chest, whilst the incorporeal beast spun in search of the opening through which to penetrate him.

He began to feel that the smoke was thicker, that the heat was more intense, and his strength failed him.

Every breath of air hurt him. The thin threads, as slender as fingers yet as strong as steel, began to wrap around his legs and rose up to his chest. The pressure choked him and tore at his armour.