The Devastation #11

By the time the third blast was heard, the spectral bubble had utterly transformed, reduced to a wild whirlwind which, taking on a circular shape, began to rise towards the sky.

Along with the sixth blast, a heart-rending scream reached them, and as the twelfth fell silent, a deathly stillness reigned over the forest for a few seconds.

The storm of spectre-birds slowly dissipated into the sky, and from its depths Narg was spat out.

He fell face-first, dizzy, and his nose cracked.

A few paces distant, Maed did likewise, and as he rose, a disoriented raven drew near with a broken wing and perched upon his shoulder.

A few paces further off, he espied his brother and hastened to his side.

Narg stretched forth his hands; his palms were burning and his whole frame ached.

He searched his mind for a thought. Nothing.

The king of the empire had not thought of anything for a long time.

He breathed slowly because, with every breath, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced his mouth and lacerated his ribs.

His rent armour and cloak pressed upon him as never before.

He compelled himself to raise his torso and dragged one knee across the ground, then the other.

His breast contracted and he was overcome by a cough, expelling green phlegm mixed with thick blood.

With his nose dislocated, turned so that it was about to touch his cheek, half his face was numb.

Amidst the dizziness clouding his senses, he beheld his blood dripping through his fingers as a warm rain drenched his head and back.

He gasped to stifle the pain, as if that warm moisture were restoring his soul.

He began to focus, striving to discern where he was.

Leaves and roots carpeted the ground beneath him.

When his vision at length returned, he perceived that his raiment, like all things about him, was bespattered with blood falling in fine droplets like dew.

Groping his way, he turned as he scanned his surroundings.

The thick, violent, violet cloud hung low over the firmament.

He looked for Tower, but found naught. He looked for Owin and, in the distance, saw his bare feet upon a bed of black feathers.

He crawled toward him. He was unarmed and there was no sign of Santiana, yet he endeavoured to proceed.

With every excruciating movement, he concentrated upon his surroundings.

The flapping of his ravens helped him arch his back; the gusting wind caught his attention and he managed to move his right hand forward; with the crackling of the fire surrounding him, he moved his left hand forward; he strained a little more and the rustling of the leaves beneath him allowed him to drag his knee.

Tower’s neigh was his source of energy to straighten his spine.

He lifted his head and looked towards the horizon.

Owin’s legs were nigher. He shifted anew; it was his left knee’s turn; he lifted it, when from the firmament once more his steed’s voice made his blood run cold.

He did not rest his knee, but the tip of his boot, and, with a twist of his hips, let himself fall to one side until he sat.

The twinge in his side grew sharper. Had it not been for Tower’s prolonged, piercing whinny, he would have fainted.

He raised his head, desperate to see the sky or the treetops.

His pupils reached the upper rim of his eye sockets, and there it was, suspended in the air, a prisoner of the purple shadow that squeezed it, and, like a trench cutting across his entire chest, a long laceration.

The tentacles had torn through the hide and were twisting his entrails.

He did not succeed in closing his eyes in time to prevent the image from etching itself upon his retinas for the remainder of his days.

Neither did he escape being struck by the ulcerated entrails of the black steed, which fell and scattered across the earth without sparing him.

The stench of death and decay permeated his raiment and hide, and the entrails became tangled in his grey hair.

He beheld Owin collapse, unconscious. The man was naked, and not a trace of his armour could be seen scattered about him. The shadowy storm faded, and his steed fell agonisingly upon his outstretched right leg.

He had neither the time nor the strength to cry out against the searing pain caused by his ankle, crushed beneath the steed’s ribcage, for, from behind him, he heard someone approaching.

'Narg Hugnork, do not move.'

Slowly he exhaled; it was not a sigh of relief, but the last drop of hope departing his body.

There was no room for doubt now; the beast walked amongst them, and there was no turning back.

He was paying the price for uncovering a truth that had been crying out to be revealed.

How might he make amends for so much harm, when he had lost all?

He, who had become a legend for looking after his folk, and now his world had crumbled and he was walking into the abyss of the night.

He, who had been destined for greatness, and it was his beloved nephew, Cloet Munork, who now levelled a sword at him.