Redmun came skimming across the ground, before skidding to an abrupt stop. Struck by absolute awe, he watched as William faced down this dreaded creature before him; all the while slowly mutating into the beast which he was to become. Only one word escaped the man’s lips, “Impossible!”
Nevertheless, before this alteration could fully be manifest, it was disrupted by an inexplicable shift in the Pooka’s behaviour. He was floundering hysterically, harrowingly.
Shock reversed William’s transformation, when he heard a friendly voice singing for all to hear, “Ho-ho! Ha-ppy bir-thday to meee…!”
Lo and behold, Icrick materialized from nowhere, and was swinging from the dragon’s middle snout by old Stringles himself. Like a muzzle, he’d ravelled himself around it, clamping it shut, while the Grogoch kept the other three at bay with his swiping sickle.
“Hurry, William!” yelled he, swinging by like some heroic pirate. “Take his blasted head off!”
Allowing his enemy no opportunities to gain the upper hand, William vaulted skywards and with a devastating slice of green, he took the foul head of that unsightly monster, once and for all.
With necks thrashing, the creature swayed back, and back further still. Battling to stay upright, he eventually succumbed to his fate, crashed against the wall, and fell to his belated end upon the canyon floor. Briggun’s reign of terror was well and truly over. Which was more than I could say for their mission.
“William!” Redmun cried, running to him, shooting down enemies in his way. “He’s after shattering the wall. See for yourself. The dog is after dealing one last strike!”
Whilst he was baying those words ‘last strike,’ the Wrythunn suddenly heard a disconcerting crack across from him. The Pooka had fractured the precipice just enough that the entire cupola was on the verge of falling in on top of everyone. Briggun’s last laugh.
“Quickly!” Redmun hailed, fending off more beasts. “The stone. You must find it! Carve it from his chest, lad!”
William took pedestal upon his enemy’s fallen corpse, and sank his trusty sword deep into the torso, whereupon he wrenched it this way and that to widen it. A vile job; with those sopping innards sucking, and squelching, and slurping around his blade. William could see now why Mysun wore the mask, as he himself was even retching at the stench. But his repugnance quickly waned when he discovered, sitting in amongst the rotting gore and entrails, a most mesmeric jewel.
Of an emerald face, the jewel’s fine edgings were otherwise of blue Torbhín gold; a unique mineral, only found in rare living things. Inside the jewel itself was a most curious glimmer, which held an essence of moonbeams glistening across an open lake. Who’d have thought that such impeccable beauty could be the inflictor of so much burden.
“Well done, lad!” Redmun praised, catching up to him at last. “Well done, indeed! What a warrior you have become. His time will soon be over. You need but do away with this evil in your hands. You need only shatter it, lad.”
William, all of a sudden, found himself staring expressionlessly into the stone’s core, saying, “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”
“This saddens you?!” the man shouted impatiently, for what little time could be spared before they were all crushed.
Then, “No!” the boy replied, almost angry at himself, and he hopped the stone off the hard ground.
It split into three equal shards, from which an aluminous red liquid then drained. The last living drops of Drevol’s existence.
Once all three shards had bled out completely, a delicate flicker of violet sparked between them. A strange reaction. Neither of them were rendered time enough to question it, however, having been too distracted by the mysterious wave of sapphire light that was spreading across the canyon floor from Briggun’s corpse. It was beautiful.
This miraculous ripple, cured all of the Dwelvin-Mites of their ailments as it washed by them. Picksy could now see. Fibbún could now run. Indeed, every other creature who’d suffered from the Sadness was as fit as they were the day they first ventured down into the mysterious Grollo. On the contrary, that same swell did not fair so prosperously for their enemies, who ended up being propelled up into the night with a mighty blast. Being flung so high was no pleasing concept, but at least they were clear of that cave-in, which was gone well beyond any physical or magical repair.
Ungodly sheets of rock were splitting from the cliff sides, then sliding down and smashing into boulders off the ground; not only proving it perilous from above, but also on the ground too, with rocks of all sizes hurtling by. Soon the entire gorge was rattling.
William and Redmun did their utmost to herd everyone along, but still that mountain of hysteria was too towering to overcome. Nobody knew where they were going. They were so confused by all of the screams, horror, and the most devastating avalanche of bare stone that was spilling in around them.
“Move along! This way. Make for the western gate.” the two of them mustered, when, with piercing cognition, William’s ear zeroed in on a shriek that exceeded them all.
“Somebody!” screamed she, sounding in pain. “I’m…stuck!”
It didn’t take William long to see her. Wren was close to the outside of the castle, whose crumbling stone had set, upon her leg, the heavy iron of that rickety portcullis gate. She was trapped rightly.
“Wren!” he yelled, landing down next to her. “Again? You’re all the time getting stuck! What do you be at?”
“Oh, spare me the lecture,” she squirmed, “and just get me out of here!”
Neither of them knew it at the time, but the Symphogram was already getting bombarded by debris on the other side; and a knock to the Symphogram meant a knock to William’s power.
Had he his full capabilities, this gate would have weighed no more than a sheet of weathered plywood. But it had gotten suddenly heavier, such that he fumbled it. It felt as though a massive boulder had fallen on it, weighing it down ten times more. But nothing had fallen on top of it. It was just the gate. Somewhere by the western pass, the Symphogram had taken a bad knock, and one of its panels was hanging off, thereby costing him some of his strength.
Labouring to hold it up, he strained, “Go on, Wren, will you! Pull your…leg out. I…can’t hold this up…all…day!”
She tried, only to find her ankle wedged beneath a flat slab she didn’t know was there.
The fissures above were making their way around to the western gate, collapsing the walls in its tracks. Some of the Dwelvin-Mites had already been killed by the stray rocks as they fled into the neighbouring canyon. Those poor, brave creatures. At least they lived long enough to see Briggun dead. At least they had that.
Every last one of them would’ve been done for, were it not for his might his last stand.
Terrified of what might happen, the Wrythunn wrung out whatever dribs of power he had left in his threadbare self, and caught the biggest of those stones in a levitating grip before they could crush any more. This presented his followers with the chance to abscond. Meanwhile, in his other hand, he was holding up the portcullis so that it wouldn’t fall and snap Wren’s already encumbered leg.
When Redmun witnessed this, he realised that William was nowhere to be seen. He thought he was right there, next to him, helping to lead the other out. With a start, he beseeched aloud to make his whereabouts known. One thing for certain was, that as long as those boulders levitated, William was still alive. But he didn’t know how long that was going to last.
Redmun’s worry ballooned when he there was no response to his calls. He was on the verge of running back into the eye of destruction to conduct a more thorough search.
Just then, he heard the boy replying, “Just go, Redmun! I’ll catch up with you. I’m fine. Really!”
Dubious of William’s reasoning, Redmun chose not flee, but stay put. That’s when the rest of his band quickly regrouped beside him.
“There is no way we are leaving him here. Power or no power!” said Crosco, when Icrick append
ed, “I agree! We made a pledge. We live together. We die together. Remember? Now let’s see it through. All or nothing!”
William saw how they were discussing things, and so he pacified, like everything was under control, “JUST SORTING SOMETHING OUT OVER HERE! YE GO ON! WE’LL BE OUT SHORTLY! SEE TO IT THAT THE DWELVIN-MITES MAKE IT TO SAFETY!”
Snubbing this off, Khrum beamed that cheeky grin of his and said, “Me arse—’sortin’ things out.’ He’s not foolin’ anyone. Besides, it’d be a cryin’ shame for us ta run out on all this action now. So what say we have ourselves one lasht bit o’ craíc, ha?”
Siding with their pledge, they hurried back to their friend’s rescue. All or nothing.
“Eejits!” the lad grumbled, though he was profoundly grateful for their concern.
Nevertheless, they had a long way to run. And Redmun couldn’t risk flying through all the debris.
“Ow! It stings!” Wren winced, trying to get a look at her wound. “What if we don’t make it, William? What then?”
“We will!” he promised. “And don’t you worry! They’re on their way! In the meantime, I’m here…and I’m not going to leave you!”
She smiled. William had always kept his promises to her.
“Besides, all we have to—”
He never got a chance to finish that sentence.
A sharp spike of stone came whistling down from the ceiling as he was consoling her.
Carving the horn in two, it impaled the Symphogram. From its ruptured frame, a watery glow passed into darkness.
Alas, the entire canyon fell to its end, leaving nothing behind but a monumental mound of ruin.
Nothing; not even the tears of bloody agony can instil a shiver, a gripping dread, quite so chilling as the one which dominates from when countless voices are, all of a sudden, silenced all at once.
From the haven of the adjoining gorge, thousands of Dwelvin-Mites had gathered and were staring, dispiritedly, into that hill of smoking rubble. Not a mutter was spoken. Not a sound did they make. Mouths were cupped. Heads silently dissented. They waited. They prayed. Yes, their worst nemesis had been defeated. A day which all of them had dreamt about ever since the deep woods of the south were but seedlings, and the blossoming dales of Skórsdayl were known as Lough Valley. But all of that meant nothing to them now without their heroes.
Where were they?
There were no signs of any movement; only a tail of dust that snaked its way up into the breaking heavens. It had been a long, long time since the morning sun had last dawned in Lór. What a tragedy it had to shine upon this day.
After waiting for a time, someone, somewhere, in the middle of the crowd began to sob. An Elfling, of the Open-Shore clan, whose hope had been amputated by the catastrophe before her. Like an infection, this birthed another cry, and then another after that. Eventually sorrow had seeped its way in amongst the mob until most, if not all, were at its venomous mercy. Not a hysterical bawling, as such. It was more of soft, quiet tears. A funereal grieving. Tears which warranted no words. Soon, loss had eclipsed the hearts of all, save one.
Up front, holding her father’s hand and, heedless of how small she was, Picksy Whispin decided not to shed a tear. She kept her chin up, she chose to be strong. She chose to embrace her faith, as opposed to forsaking it. She watched that demolished pile for four, five, ten minutes more—during which time her kinsfolk and friends had already taken the hollowing step of offering condolences—and she proceeded to watch so, hell-bent on finding something of encouragement.
Suddenly she spotted a pebble trundling down, halfway up. A slight movement, maybe, and virtually insignificant, perhaps, but it was enough to make her squeeze his father’s hand. Looking down to see what was the matter, Fibbún followed her gaze up into the rocks, where another stone followed the last. Something was stirring up there.
Some few feet away from that, an enormous flat rock unexpectedly shifted, and out popped a hand. Reaching for the blue of the sky, it yearned for the dear life of the outside world.
Ecstatically, the young faerie pointed it out, shouting, “Look! Look! Over there! See! See!”
The Dwelvin-Mites glanced up to see what was going on, when the head of an Elfish warrior lifted from the ruin, gasping for air. An arm’s reach away, a hairy paw had otherwise emerged; along with a little brown hat, and its little owner, of course.
Stell dragged himself from the ashes, when the crowd erupted with a roaring cheer. The sheer volume of it came as quite a fright to the Elf, considering how bewildered he still was after fighting the biggest battle of his time. And yet that’s not to say that he wasn’t moved. He even felt proud of himself (heaven forbid).
He plunged his arms into the rubble, to help out the Grogoch and the leprechaun, who were just as delirious, but they were alive nonetheless. You can imagine how surprised they were to find the Dwelvin-Mites applauding them, too. These were the folk that they grew up with. Folk who would never have suspected them capable of such feats; not that they would ever doubt them intentionally. By the looks of things, they were about to be very popular among old friends. So making themselves a wee bit more presentable, Khrum fixed his collar, while Icrick licked his paw and brushed his hair to one side, which made him look pretty ludicrous but he cared not, as he was too busy basking in the moment.
Ifcus and Redmun were the next to exhume themselves. Seated, and hunched over, the Erethaoí seemed utterly spent, but was just relieved that it was all over. Ifcus was using his reins to drag his master from under a pile of chains. His heart welled when he saw The Head was okay. Slightly more powdery, perhaps, from all the dust, along with a touch of a tickly throat, but, in all, he was in good shape. The same went for The Body, who turned out to be shielding the Poppum’s body in his arms all that time, as if it would somehow make a difference.
They were alive and well, and they shuffled down to meet their adoring public at the bottom of that mountainous pile. Suddenly our heroes seemed no longer blissful. Distraught, would be more fitting. Or uncertain. Uncertain because there was no sign yet of William or Wren. Then the Dwelvin-Mites took notice, and all celebrations stopped. It was as noiseless as before.
Optimistic young Picksy was more nervous than anyone, as dejected voices gathered around her. Sparse, devastated yells; crying out ‘no!’ and ‘please!’ and ‘this cannot be so,’ all pleading and praying that these two young souls had somehow pulled through and were on their way over to meet them. But there was no sign.
Something caught Redmun’s eye at the bottom of the debris. He then plucked from the ruins a piece of the Symphogram; one half of its brass horn. And that’s when he realised, whatever was left of the Symphogram, wherever it was, must have been in a condition just as poorly.
“H-His Wrythus.” he uttered sadly, regarding that mass of immovable rock.
Stell approached him, eyes taken by despair.
Icrick and Khrum were so upset that neither of them could lift their gaze from the ground whose aridness was speckled by not just their tears, but the Dullahan’s, too.
A golden bloom then seared through that cloud of sadness, when that same little voice yelled out, “Look, there!” and there was Picksy again, pointing to the top of that smoking summit.
Bless her eyes. Hardly anyone knew what she was pointing at. Not at first. Not through that dense smoke. But the closer they stared, the more easily they could fathom it.
From behind that curtain of dust, a faint shape approached. Hobbling, as if injured, yet moving as if determined, and in his arms he carried another. Slowly he entered the clearing; every second the crowd were almost faint with anticipation. Could it be? they thought. Then, from out of the mists of war, the boy arose with a girl in his arms. They’d made it!
A hundred times more brilliantly than before, the Dwelvin-Mites absolutely exploded with joy. With praise. Streams of bliss flushed from their eyes as they waved their arms about. Whoever wore a hat threw it high into the air. Those joyous screams shook ever
y corner of Lythiann, washing away the veil of gloom with its magnificence. So unequivocally thrilled to see his dear friends again, Khrum slapped his own hat down on the ground and jigged around it. He even went so far as to kiss Icrick on top of his nitty head who, mind you, was also blubbering girlishly in the excitement. Stell threw his arm around the Grogoch and they both chanted the boy’s name along with the others.
“Will-iam! Will-iam! Will-iam!” they went, and there was The Head, in the middle of it all, whistling louder than anyone, Ifcus bucking jubilantly by his side.
He may not have let loose quite as much as others, but Redmun was probably the most relieved of all. After muttering a thanks to the skies, he sighed and chuckled to himself at how that boy never once failed to amaze him.
The sight of him rising from the wreckage into the light of victory was something far different to what they once knew of him back in the west, and neither had such a great gathering ever praised him before. He was a hero now. Their hero. And how passionately the honour moved him.
“This is for you, William,” Wren smiled. “All for you!”
Tending to matters which he felt more important, he asked her, “Are you okay though?”
“Okay? As in…am I comfortable here, where I am?” she playfully replied, snuggling into his arms.
“Well, now that you mention it…” wondered the boy, grinning.
“Let’s just say, I suppose I could tolerate you…from time to time.” she chuckled.
This made William laugh heartily; something he had not done in quite some time. And when he did, two magpies soared suddenly past his ears then coiled high into the clouds of that gorgeous blue sky. William could see on for miles around; over the midlands, and far into the horizon where those magpies flew.
“Well! Would you look at that!” said Wren, following their flight. “The empathy of beasts.”
“Empathy of beasts?” he asked.
“Yes. One of Mysun’s abilities. He could talk to them. Feel what they feel. And ever since the steps of Sétanta, I knew you were the promised one. Regardless of what you believed yourself. But there was just no talking to you!”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 64