BW XXVIII - Dafydd
An ageing Norseman (Odin), slightly ruddy of complexion, with the brightest blue eyes, long flowing white hair and beard, and dressed in weather-beaten fur-trimmed travelling clothes makes a forceful point, “He belongs to no-one – not to you, not to me.”
As he speaks, the Norseman’s left arm straightens and his clenched, gloved fist partially unfurls as he jabs a finger in the direction of his gaze. His right hand, clasping a golden spear bears the weight of his bent torso. The blade of the gisarme points vertically, reflecting the dying, red light of the evening sun.
“No, but it is true that his motives stem from the influence that your daughter has on the Prime,” came the no less forceful response from the Greek (Zeus) sat opposite. Only adorned in a white toga, held at the waist with a golden belt, and brown leather sandals, the Grecian bears no arms or armour. His white hair is shorter and better kempt than the Norseman’s and is held in place by a circlet of platinum. Neatly trimmed, his beard and mustache partially cover his tanned, care-worn face. His deep green eyes are fixed on the same distant point as the Norseman’s.
The Gods perch on what appear to be floating marble thrones. Similar in design, they rise out of the surrounding cumulus like great, white wings from the back of a swan. Leaning forward, the Gods peer through a hole in the cloud at events unfolding in the gloaming far below.
Distractedly the Norseman replies, “Not directly but perhaps through others’ poor understanding of our consciousness…”
“It is real enough, Odin, your daughter (Hel) has her mind set…”
“That is as maybe, but the Sword would have played no part in their lives if it was not for your Brother (Hades)…” Again the Norse God jabs a finger below to where Dafydd’s eyes are now also drawn.
Miles below is the murky outline of a castle, nestling amongst high mountains; it is lit only by the failing evening sun which bathes the upper slopes in blood-red light. Unusual in design – not being the Norse standard with which Dafydd is familiar – it has tall, round towers that heap one upon another, echoing the mountain. Each tower is capped with brightly coloured minarets, some flying a purple flag on which is the silhouette of a woman’s face - half black, half white (Hel). Long, reaching walls jealously guard the few flat areas of ground that exist high up between vertiginous slopes. It is to one of these ‘flat’ areas that Dafydd’s eye is drawn. He floats down from the cloud and feels that time has no dominion; he watches seasons come and go, unravelling the world’s natural rhythm. As he stares, the image seems to get closer. The bare rock appears to be a triangle, with the base running against the huge mountain side, little more than forty-foot long. The other two sides comprise the castle walls that run from the mountain sides, where they merge with the rock, and join at a small circular tower, roughly twenty foot from it. On top of the walls but facing inward, at even spacing, about twenty archers hold long bows loosely. Lit by three standing braziers (one close to each corner), two men stand in the middle of the open area.
The first is a tall burly man, dressed in dark plate mail, with all manner of spikes and sharp edges, designed for close combat, hung from which is a grey cloak, with a purple robe underneath. A great, war helm adorns his head, welded to which is a platinum crown with seven deep-blue gem-encrusted points. Across the man’s back is a giant sword (Rakos) and emblazoned across his chest is the image of a great wolf. He stands still, armoured arms folded and mailed fists clenched. It is Guerin.
Opposite the darkly clad warrior is a tall, skinny, young man (Yorinksen). Over his plate mail he wears a blue tabard on which is embroidered a burning sword. Scabbarded long and short swords hang from a leather belt that is joined at his waist by a silver buckle, the point of which depicts a flaming sword (Fastlor). Fair haired, clean shaven and handsome, the man’s green eyes regard the monstrosity opposite intently, nervously watching his every move.
“Relax my friend; I mean you no harm.” The larger warrior intones smoothly.
“But my men…” blurts out the younger knight before being cut off.
“Were about to kill mine...”
The younger man continues to protest, “This was the home of a good friend of my father.”
“And it is now my home; at least, for a while.” pronounced the older man, “Look, my young friend, there is only one winner in a fight to the death and that will be me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I have the winning hand: you, this castle (and many others), most of Amorsland and an army three times that of your late father (Silmar).”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Help you be the man your father did not see; make you the greatest warrior of our time and let you experience the wonders that I have been lucky enough to enjoy…”
Dafydd returns to the cloud where the Grecian (Zeus) continues in a more conciliatory tone, “This is true; and, if it were not for Anubis’ desire for expansion on the Prime we would not have been forced to make that decision.”
“So, as we have oft spoken, perhaps the Prime should be left to its own devices,” the Norseman (Odin) mused, intending to provoke.
Taking the bait, the Grecian’s irritation was obvious, “In the ascendancy you can afford to take that approach; however, some of us are not so fortunate. I would not wish an alliance between my brother (Hades) and your daughter (Hel) to destroy us all – as is foretold by your own predictions.”
“Agreed, but to influence the Prime further could lead to greater suffering.”
“It may,” rejoined Zeus, leaning closer across the hole between them, “but the great Demons (Orcus and Demogorgan) will again walk freely and it will only be a matter of time before other dark creatures, beyond our control, seek dominion there.”
“Do those of the Nine seek to return?” it was the Norseman’s turn to appear concerned.
“Yes and the greatest of the Abyss will take an interest once the darkness finally comes.”
“Anubis’ plan has completely unravelled, as I foretold,” whispered Odin.
“You did,” agreed Zeus, “and it has; that is why we ask for your help now: we have to get more involved.”
Sizing the task, Odin confirms, “You ask for my help to return the Sword to its origins?”
“That would be a start; come now, Odin, we cannot simply help once and withdraw. The temptations and frailty of men has proven that they cannot survive contact from the outer worlds.”
Again the Norseman’s restraint is obvious, “We should not go too far, Zeus, Anubis made that mistake.”
“Agreed, but the time is right; if we fail to act, then we risk losing the Prime altogether.”
Odin considers the matter for what seems like an age; “You shall have my support. One of my faithful (Dafydd) is helping to address the balance of power on the Prime and has some significant allies. He is now indebted to me, which makes him even more useful. I take it your thoughts turn to what once belonged in your realm?”
“They do my friend; can your acolyte help retrieve it? Our powers are much constrained, to my brother’s mirth.”
“He must start there,” the Norseman points again to the castle, “without it, he will do no more than collect pretty metal.”