Aurelius and I (30 page)

“But you don’t understand, I’m new to all this, I didn’t even believe fairies existed this time last month, you can’t seriously expect me to take on Aurelius
and
Blackheart together, can you?’

“So Aurelius has gone over to the Tundrala?” said the king with only the mildest hint of surprise.

“Yes, Aurelius is seeking to destroy the forest too!” interjected Ophelia. “Together they’re going to try to steal the power of the ruins, and if they don’t succeed, they’re going to destroy them!”

“Nonsense!” laughed the king. “Everybody knows the tablet in indestructible.”

“Not if you have the scimitar,” I said.

“Which scimitar?”

“What do you mean which scimitar?” I asked, shocked that one who knew so much about the ruins would not also know of their only weakness. “The Scimitar of Swaronia of course.”

“
Sw
aronia or
Sh
aronia?”

“Swaronia...at least, I think so. Does it really make a difference?”

“I’m afraid it does. You see, it is a little-known fact that when the ancients forged the Scimitar of Swaronia, they also created an exact replica as a failsafe – the Scimitar of Sharonia. The two are identical in every detail, and impossible to tell apart even to the most well-trained eye. On using the blades however, one will quickly notice one important difference; while the Scimitar of Swaronia is the most powerful blade ever forged, capable of cutting through any substance on earth with a single swipe, whereas the Scimitar of Sharonia is merely an ordinary sword, capable of cutting through only ordinary, soft substances like wood, or human flesh, or Edam.”

“But wouldn’t Blackheart have tested the sword before the big moment?”

“Not necessarily, if he, like so many, had no knowledge of a second sword, he would have no reason to use the blade he did have without purpose. Especially since doing so would engulf whatever it touched in an immensely powerful magical aura which would serve to act as a calling card to every powerful witch, wizard, and demon who would seek such a weapon for themselves.”

“So how are we to know whether Blackheart has the right sword or not? Or Should we simply cross our fingers and pray that the tablet stays in one piece when he cuts it?”

“Well, I suppose that’s one option,” mused the king, “or we could retrieve the other blade and discover for certain which one Blackheart holds.”

Even in the near-darkness that had rapidly descended upon the forest, the silhouette of the massive misshapen tree, and the owl perched high amongst its branches stood out strongly against the starry sky. After several lost hours and one lost friend we had returned to where our journey into the forest’s dark heart had begun.

TOOWIT-TOOWOO! came the owl’s familiar cry.

“And a good evening to you, Jeffrey,” replied the fairy king, whom I had learned during the course of our journey, was named Rolinthor. “Glad to see someone reliable guarding the scimitar, it’s just a shame these young fellows did not pass this way sooner, such a weapon would have been of great use as a bargaining tool in our escape.”

TOOWIT-TOOWOO! TOOTOO-TOOWITWOO! TOOWIT-TOOWOO!

“What do you mean they did come this way? Why on earth did you not inform them of the scimitar’s hiding place? Could you not sense the immense power and goodness emanating from within the human? Perhaps, Jeffrey, you are not so wise after all!”

TOOWIT-WITWITWOO! TOOWIT-TOOWOOWOO! Replied the owl rapidly, and in harsher tones, an apparently indignant expression spread across his face.

“Impossible!” laughed the king. “Ophelia would surely have understood at least most, if not all of what you said, for her mother and I have been departed for many moons now and our daughter’s schooling would have begun long ago. Tell him Ophelia,” he said, turning to face his daughter.

“Erm, yes, er,...”

“You have been going to school haven’t you, dear?” asked her mother (who was named Ramelia) in a tone that suggested she thought of truanting as akin to granny-bashing in terms of the horrifying things a child could do to upset their parents.

“Well, not exactly, no.”

“Oh my goodness,” the fairy queen squealed hysterically, leaning on her husband’s shoulder in order to stop herself fainting from the shock.

“You mean to say you have been skipping school?” cried her father in a voice that did little to hide his own dismay. “How many days have you missed?’ he asked. ‘Two, five...not ten, please don’t tell me you’ve missed as many as ten.”

“Well,... kind of,...all of them,” Ophelia replied sheepishly.

This time her mother did collapse, wilting to the floor like a trampled daffodil at the thought of her offspring missing out on education, something I found a little strange given that this was a woman who had survived weeks of imprisonment and experimentation at the hands of Mr Romarticus. I reasoned that it must, in fact, have been these experiences which left her so ill-equipped to cope now.

“I didn’t care about education – especially when it came to learning the language of our predators - all I cared about was learning to be a warrior so that I could come and find you both” she said, propping up her mother while her father split a shoot from a small shrub in order that his wife might drink its refreshing liquid.

“An owl, a predator to a fairy? What nonsense!” cried the king. “Next you will be telling me that stag beetles use their enormous claws to do harm as opposed to carrying injured insects to safety. Do you see what bigoted lies one ends up convincing themselves of without education? Did we not always teach you that a great warrior may only come from a great mind?”

“I know,” said the princess, tears filling her almond eyes. “I’m sorry. I just missed you so much. I never meant to disappoint you.”

“It’s okay, little one,” her mother whispered soothingly, pulling her daughter’s head to her breast. “It’s okay, you were the one who rescued us after all.”

“I had a little help,” she replied, smiling up at me.

“Listen,” interrupted the dragnor, “this is all very touching and everything, but did someone mention something about a second mystical sword? It’s just that it’s getting quite close to midnight and we are a pretty long way from the river right now.”

As much as Grahndel’s point had been insensitively raised, it was an undeniably valid one. Our situation was becoming more desperate by the second. Even if the scimitar we were about to take possession of was the correct one, and assuming we managed to reach the caves on time, we still had no kind of plan regarding what action we might take upon our arrival, and very little time to arrive at one.

Taking heed of the dragnor’s concerns, King Rolinthor left his wife and daughter and marched purposefully toward the base of the immense tree without a word (although not without a particularly dirty look in Grahndel’s direction). He then fell to his knees at the great oak’s base, removed a strange-looking blue amulet from around his neck, placing it in a hole in the trunk, and uttered the following words in a language that the heat in my wrist told me was not English;

“Oh wise Elders,

We ask that you provide us,

Not only with the great and powerful weapon,

But also the wisdom with which to wield it.”

I should say that these words appeared to have a great deal more rhythm and meaning to those of our party who were able to understand them in their intended language, I guess even magical watches have trouble with inflection. Certainly the words seemed to have significantly more power than their translation may have suggested as the ground around the tree’s enormous roots promptly began to shake, an occurrence which was followed by the spontaneous peeling away of a large section of bark out of which poured a vast stream of intense golden light which appeared to be emanating from the sole item contained within the hollow; an extravagantly bejewelled scimitar.

For a long moment nobody spoke, each of us standing in silent awe of the incredible sword, which, bathed in a mysterious, ethereal glow, looked more like a piece of art than a weapon. It is difficult for me to put into words just how wondrous a sight it was, for it was a sight which defied description, a sight which, even given the company in which I first saw it, seemed somehow other-worldly.

“It’s magnificent,” I said finally, though such words seemed (and still seem) shamefully inadequate.

“It certainly is a thing of beauty,” agreed the king, “but of course it’s true beauty, as with all things, lies in what the scimitar stands for, as opposed to how it looks. As amazing as it seems, both scimitars are wholly identical in appearance, yet only one holds the key to the destiny of many kingdoms, the other is no more powerful than any ordinary blade.”

“So how do we find out which is which?” I asked even though I think on some level I knew the answer, but was simply unwilling to risk discovering that we had the wrong one, that all we had gone through thus far had been for nothing. Thankfully though, it was not a discovery that was mine to make.

“I can think of a way,” said the dragnor, bursting forward and snatching the scimitar from its resting place. We all took several quick steps back as he wobbled and stumbled under the weight of the blade he held high above his head. Indeed, so fearful was I for my own safety that I failed to grasp the purpose of the little demon’s smash-and-grab raid until it was already too late to do anything about it.

“TIMBER!!!” he cried, bringing the scimitar crashing down into the flesh of the enormous tree which had provided both its shelter and its security for so many years past.

Metal met bark with an ear-splitting crack, closely followed by a long, low, painful whine which sounded as though it had come from the tree itself. The owl loudly squawked its disapproval as it abandoned its shaking perch, flying off into the forest. There followed an audible and suspicious silence which was observed by us all with baited breath as we waited to see what would happen next.

Those brief seconds provided me with perhaps the strangest emotional conflict I have ever experienced. On the one hand I wanted the tree to remain standing, and not only for fear of being crushed to death under its weight when it landed, but also out of a deeper, less rational attachment I had developed for it and the part it had played our journey, both in terms of keeping safe the scimitar and in guiding us on the right path so that we were able to locate Juliette’s parents. On the other, I knew that, if I were to have the slightest hope of fulfilling my destiny and saving the forest, I needed it to fall.

Such emotional calculations, though complex, can have taken no more than a few seconds, for the next thing I remember was the bolt of heart-stopping fear that shot through me as I realised that the scimitar was indeed the one we had come in search of, and, accordingly, the enormous old oak was indeed hurtling down toward us at a pace which threatened that some, if not all of our party, would find their final resting place beneath it.

Despite its failure to live up to its promise of wiping some if not all of us off the face of the earth (which may have somewhat hampered our quest) our unnecessary, tree-based near-death experience had nevertheless afforded Blackheart and his men the advantage simply by stealing away several more of the precious few minutes that remained before the midnight hour hit and their evil plan could be put into force. Given our lack of strength or a plan however, it was probably not an advantage they would need.

“Will everyone stop looking at me like it’s all my fault?” complained Grahndel, breaking the angry silence under which we had been travelling since assessing the damage done by the fallen tree and discovering that, by some miracle, no-one had been hurt.

“But it is your fault,” Ophelia asserted in a voice that had lost any trace of the humour it may once have held in previous bickerings between the two. “You could have killed anyone of us doing that. You just don’t think! I swear, if you had taken my parents from me so soon after I got them back I would’ve...” She stopped mid-sentence as though she could not think of any act horrible enough represent the pain she felt at the idea of losing her mother and father for a second time.

“Yes, well,” continued the dragnor, lacked even the slightest comprehension the notion that silence was sometimes the best option, “if we hadn’t had to go so far out of our way to rescue your precious parents, maybe we wouldn’t be so late now!”

“YOU MADE US LATE!!!!” screamed the young princess, before lunging fearlessly at the demon who was at least eight times her size, a look of pure hatred in her eyes.

The king and queen, clearly used to their daughter’s fiery temper, moved quickly to restrain her, much to the relief of the terrified-looking dragnor. They could not, however, restrain her voice.

“It’s your fault we’re late, you idiot! You nearly killed us all with that tree back there, AND you took your time doing so! You’re useless! No, no, you’re worse than useless. You’re a complete liability! Why are you even here? Nobody wants you here. Why don’t you do us all a favour and just GET LOST!!!”

There followed a long pause, for a moment of which I thought the supposedly fearsome demon was actually going to cry. Even when his routine retort did finally arrive, it lacked the usual spiteful conviction;