The Winds of Crowns and Wolves (22 page)

Neach quivered both from the cold wind which
blew stiffly across the face of the tower, and from the thought of
a full blown war erupting just outside the city’s gates. He knew
not what lurked in the shadows of the Kingdom, but the King was
making a compelling case against their treacherous intentions.

“But enough of this talk, boy. Tonight is a
night of celebration and we must treat it as if it is so, for even
in the face of adversity it is important to show strength. Come
along now, they’ll be looking for us in the hall,” the King said
with a smile as he headed for the ladder downward.

The descent was exponentially easier than
Neach would have expected. It’s possible that the intoxicating
effects of the liquor had worn off, giving him his mechanical
functions back in full force.

They reached the staircase that exited the
battlements, and the King seemed to have a renewed hop in his step.
He skipped down the stairs at a break neck pace that Neach feared
would result in a serious injury if he were not careful.

Song was still emanating from the bowels of
the hall as they reached its entrance yet again. The warriors and
merchants alike sang a song with their utmost vigor, as the King
and his new favorite subject reentered:

“Come sail away, to the isle of Roses, the
jungles aplenty, the door now closes. Sailing along on the open
sea, you’ll never be better than then. For the water is free and
the water is timid, the water is rough and the water is rigid. In
the depth of the night when the water is calmest, a monster will
come to life; oh a monster will come to life.”

He awoke with a shiver.

The covers of his bed had been removed in
his sleep, most likely a result of his incessant movement. Though
he gained the respite he needed most nights, his body always seemed
to ache in the morning as if he had been running in his dreams all
night long.

Neach pulled them back over himself in
exhaustion, as a long yawn erupted from deep inside the cavern that
had been created by the lifted sheets. This was his first morning
in the Castle, and he found himself enjoying it more and more as
time passed by. His bedding was made of the plushest linens from
across the land, and some from across the ocean, which created a
cohesive bastion of comfort that he slept upon every night. Though
he lived like a pauper in comparison to the King, the same could be
said for his past life in Spleuchan Sonse. The accommodations he
was now privy to far surpassed anything he had ever been given as a
young boy.

Minutes passed before he could muster the
strength to rise from the bed. He felt as if it would hold him in
its grips for an eternity, but struggled his way out of its soft
exterior, regretting every movement.

The curtains that resided atop his bedroom’s
window were drawn apart, and the bright morning sunshine shone
through the glass square. Neach squinted, as he looked out into the
courtyard at the people who had begun setting up their day, just as
they did every other day.

Today seemed more upbeat than the prior,
however, as he heard song emanating from high atop the watch tower.
He assumed it must have been another of the King’s egregious
ceremonies in remembrance of his father.

Pulling on a pair of tan slacks and a green
shirt, Neach moseyed out of his room, and into the hallway that he
was growing so close with. Light speckled the inside of the hallway
as it came in through the open spaces of the cloisters, and Neach
was thankful for the added warmth, as his teeth chattered.

With his arms folded and his legs stiff,
Neach entered the hall to attempt to scrounge up food from the
night before. What he found when he entered was both alarming and
amusing.

Seated at the head of one table was a man
whose face was buried deep into a blueberry pie. The vivacious
purples and blues of the juice ran down his face, as if it were
sweet, fruity, blood nectar. To his right, another man was slumped
over a plate of rice, and had most likely been there since the
dinner. Even atop the high table, a man sat with his head thrown
back and a deep red wine stain down the front of his tunic. The
King’s subjects that worked in the kitchen were running around
frantically, attempting to restore order before he wished to eat
another meal in the area that looked as if it had been pillaged by
enemy foot soldiers.

Neach walked to the high table and grabbed a
bundle of grapes in his hand and immediately chomped his teeth into
their soft skin. The juice flew out, and they snapped as he ate
them one by one. After he had satiated a good portion of his
hunger, he headed over to a man he knew as Lord Frylin, who was sat
next to the man stained with wine.

He had awoken, most likely recently, and was
holding his head in his hands, doing everything in his power to
thwart the hangover which was plaguing his morning.

“Good morning, Lord Frylin,” Neach said with
a smile, the grapes still present in his hand.

The Lord from the northern city of Balthusom
looked gravely serious, until a small laugh broke from his strained
face.

“Coinneach, fancy seeing you here this
early; last I saw you, you were speaking with the King’s daughter,”
he said with a hiccup.

Neach stared back in awe as he thought of
the time which Frylin was speaking of. That had been nearly two
full hours before Neach had left the hall with the King, let alone
returned to his room. Lord Frylin had no doubt blacked out or
fallen asleep as a result of the whisky and wine, which was ordered
in droves for the feast.

“That is quite a long ways removed, my Lord.
I should have thought your memory better than that,” Neach jested
with the ailing Lord.

Lord Frylin did not take kindly to these
words from Neach.

“Listen here, monkey boy, if I were King,
I’d have you dead for that,” he said as his eyes rolled back in his
head from the pain.

Neach smiled even wider this time as he
looked down at the tired man.

“Well then, I should consider myself lucky
that I’d sooner be crowned the ruler of Duncairn, than yourself,”
he exited with a fake jab to the Lord’s left arm, and Lord Frylin
had abandoned any attempt at maintaining his royal dignity.

He walked with a new sense of courage and
composure. The young boy who had left Spleuchan Sonse months
earlier was now only a shell of its former self. His head was held
high, as he glided through the empty halls of the King’s castle,
aimlessly wandering with no intention of reaching an ultimate
destination.

Though he remained a young man, Neach had
grown in untold ways as a newly initiated member of the House
Goedwig. Fenris had taught him valuable lessons, and he still read
the Toriik Riamendi before he slipped into the comfort of his bed
at night. On this beautiful summer morning, Neach thought he would
indulge in its text yet again.

Sunshine was streaming through the
intermittent clouds in the sky and down upon the whole of the city,
causing a warmth to rise from the black ground. Its brilliant glow
was nature’s candle, and it burned perpetually high in the sky
above Duncairn. Neach couldn’t have asked for a better start to the
day, and for the first time in weeks, he felt he had the relaxation
he so desired. After returning to his room, he collected the
House’s tome and slid it under his baggy shirt.

Out into the courtyard Neach strolled, and
he walked across the open space to the shade that was being
provided by one of the stalls. He sat down in the cool air and
breathed a sigh of relief. Though he appreciated the heat, it was
increasing rapidly throughout the day and threatened to suffocate
him.

As he sat beneath the shaded wall, he opened
the book to the point where had finished the night before. No
matter how many times he revisited the text, he was always struck
by the extent of the detail that went into crafting its binding and
individual pages. He had read a few hundred pages, and made no more
than a dent in its extensive size. The section he had opened to
have an eloquent illustration of a wolf, bear, and a large black
cat, the likes of which he had never seen. Atop the picture were
the native words: Blidole Feralion.

He swept his finger across and revealed the
translation that he could understand. Though his Goedian was
improving every day, these two words were ones he had not
encountered throughout his time thus far.

The Feral Bloodlines, it read, long ago,
before the dawn of the first Kingdom, before the first town was
raised, there resided three legions. These legions were forged in
the earliest moments of our universe and live on to the current
day. On the island of Duncairn, the once near extinct House Goedwig
resides survived by the sons of Forlid the Grey and Wrena the
Tawny. Their blood seeps deep into the land and grafts a tangible
connection between themselves and the space from the Cliffs of
Baltha, to the shores of Cyll.

Beneath this paragraph description, there
was a family tree drawn out that depicted the very origins of the
House Goedwig. Because of the age of the text, it only went back so
far. He didn’t even see Fenris’ name located on the tree, and he
assumed that he was the oldest remaining member of the House.

Following the description of his own house,
there laid another descriptive paragraph. Denoted by a small bear
at the top it read, across the sea, in the Kingdom of Lejman, the
people of the House Wirnej maintain a foothold amongst the icy
wasteland that is their Kingdom. Descended from Jolnik Surfia and
Drague Plokko, the House Wirnej hearkens back to their blood
relation with the ancient bears which used to roam the land.

Again, a family tree depicted the history of
the House Wirnej up until the current time, or at least until the
most recent documented time.

Neach’s eyes grew wide as he read further on
along the pages.

Following a small black cat, it read,
perhaps the most revered of the feral bloodlines, the House Farrak
is also the most recently formed. No more than fifty years prior to
the creation of this edition of the Torrik Riamendi, the first
members of the House were born in the Kingdom of Shirla. Related to
the panther by blood, their first member, Asil Turawi remains alive
to this day. Their call the desolate deserts of Shirla their home,
just south of Lejman.

He closed the book with a loud thud that
startled the stall worker nearest to him. Neach couldn’t process
exactly what he had just read. If what the book said was true,
there were hundreds if not thousands of others out there who were
just like him.

Neach held his head in his hands as he
pondered what he had just read.

As he sat in confusion, two boys dressed in
full royal attire approached him.

“You there,” they shouted, “What is your
business here?” this time with an even more imperative tone.

Neach jumped back startled.

His reaction was met by uncontrollable
laughter. The boys who he thought had discovered him reading the
sacred text were, in fact, his own brothers, Dirk and Tyrin.
Disguised in exquisite robes, they had entered the Castle and
surprised Neach, who had been lost in his own thoughts.

Aghast, but returning his heart to normal
palpitations, Neach rose to his feet and shook Dirk by the collar
playfully.

“You should be careful with that,” Dirk
urged, “It could get you killed in a place like this.”

“And the same goes for you; I nearly took my
blade to you!” Neach hollered.

Alas, the young men laughed and joked about
the situation, in an attempt to mask their underlying concern about
the intended mission at hand. He had almost forgotten his true
intentions in the good cheer and festivities, and his brothers
arrived at an optimal time to remind him of his duty.

“So Neach, how goes it?” Tyrin asked, his
voice returning to its stern normality as his brow furled up in a
peculiar motion.

What could he possibly say to them? That
life wasn’t all that bad in the castle? That the King had taken a
liking to him? That the girl he had fallen in love with many months
earlier was the King’s daughter?

“It goes well, brothers, come along, to a
place where we won’t be bothered,” Neach said, betraying his true
feelings.

Behind the watch tower nearest to his room,
there sat a training ground for the Castle’s young knights. If he
would have spent his youth within the confines of these Castle
walls, Neach would have no doubt picked up a sword at a young age
and learned the art of swordsmanship.

Metal clanged against metal, and wood
thudded against wood, as the different levels of knights engaged in
training that was relative to their skill. When they reached the
yard, Neach led his two brothers behind the weapon smith’s hut and
began to speak.

“Has there been any plan set forth by Fenris
or Daniel?” Neach asked immediately, desperate for some answers or,
at the very least, action.

Tyrin lowered his head and looked off into
the distance for a moment before responding.

“I’m afraid our situation is much more
perilous than we thought before,” Tyrin began, “The King called for
the raid of Siriac, and we’ve just gotten word that we lost six
more brothers during the fighting. He moves swiftly and
efficiently, as the House taught him so well,” he concluded, his
face taught with the lines of stress and sorrow.

Neach waited for more, but was left hanging
onto nothingness.

“What does that mean for me; for us? Are we
meant to stand by idly until he rounds us up from right underneath
his nose?” Neach asked in a demanding voice. The shy boy of old had
been replaced by an ever hardening man, intent on action.

Tyrin shook his head and spit on the ground
behind the hut. His demeanor told the entirety of the story as if
it were a finely crafted tapestry from the ancient times.