The Prophecy

The Stormy Road (3)

_ We are sorry, but... the wolves... The wolves, they had discovered us and... stuttered Cyd, visibly still shaken.

The Pope looked at him. From the depth of his memory, he seemed to remember hearing some royal talk about a terrible event that involved Cyd when he was still a child. He had been kidnapped by brigands; this had made the headlines of all the minstrels' stories for months and months until he was released. The culprits had been found, quickly judged and sentenced to life in Artoolh, the Prison of the Four, but Old Bear suspected that something sinister was at play here, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and he couldn't ask Cyd's family, without risking a diplomatic incident...

_ We understand, he simply told the sorrowful Gelfling, what we do next is most important: we must stop the fire to spread!

_ It's okay, but... how?

_ It seems very simple to me, remarked Flavien d'Oullia, rather casually. Water is a mortal enemy of fire. Let's use it!

And what was said was done in a surprising simple way: Flavian invoked the Lince Narcínn, master of water, focusing the salutary element on the fire that was increasingly invading the forest. The next moment, there were only a few thin columns of dark smoke rising from the forest. The rain continued to fall slowly, as if to make sure that it had finished off its natural enemy.

With the forest saved, the wise men could resume their journey. Despite the relief to know they hadn't destructed one of the oldest forests of Innàa by their recklessness, they couldn't manage to feel good and relax: far below, the wolves were still howling, and growling. Moreover, as if pushed and teased by Fate, a treacherous gust of wind forced them to fly over the city of Astínn and, once again, that traitorous feeling of uneasiness and suffocation possessed them. Nobody evoked the curse but all breathed better when they exceeded the oversight space of the city. But even as their terror subsided, the Wise Ones could not rest. The wind had risen again and was redoubling in fury. The turmoil became more virulent with each passing moment. The Stallion, flying to the Pope's left, suddenly encountered an updraft and was instantly separated from the group. His winged horse could only keep a precarious balance. The Stallion clung with all his strength to the mane of the Pegasus and it is at the price of this effort that he remained alive.

The rest of the troop also felt the turbulence. The Pope was blown back by a gust of icy wind. This is how he saw himself at the level of Childeric, the wise man who finished the march. All zigzagged for a long time. The rain, not the magical one casted by Flavian, but the normal one that was seemingly following them each step they took, became so insistent that maintaining   any course revealed impossible.

The Stallion, which had been sailing in the heights since the beginning of these aerial incidents, was suddenly thrown down. His winged horse could do nothing to hold him back, the downdraft was too strong to fight it off. The Stallion fell two or three unials and hit poor Manoël, also in distress. Manoël had the reflex to grab him by the wrist, thus saving his life. The Stallion clung to the saddle of Manoël's Pegasus, succeeded to sit on his rump.

         The troop was very scattered when calm finally returned. Only the persistent rain seemed to pursue them. Bud, who had managed to stay with the Grand Pope, pulled a Horn of Mist out of his coat. A powerful and sonorous sound filled the air. One time, a second, then a third. Silence returned.

Minutes passed, as long as centuries. And, finally, in the distance, Old Bear saw a black spot. As he got closer, he could distinguish his old friend, the Storyteller. As soon as he was within reach, the Pope cried out:

_ Quicksilver! Are you okay?

_ I'm alive! I can't believe it myself! He said half amazed, half chuckling, his heart rate still very high. What about the others? Have you seen them?