The Winds of Crowns and Wolves (26 page)

His diatribe ended, as his fists came to
rest atop the table for a final time. Tears were building in his
eyes, as Neach spoke with trepidation.

“Surely there’s another way to fix this?” he
treaded lightly as if on broken glass, hoping not to set the King
off further.

Henrig looked to Neach, with a wild passion
in his eyes, and whispered ominously.

“I have seen the things they can do Neach,
they harbor dark spirits within them and torture men relentlessly,”
he shook as he stood in place.

“All will be consumed by their evil, if not
now, then at some point in the near future,” with that, he released
Neach’s arms from his grips, and stood up straight. In moments, the
man who he believed to be a shell of himself was restored to a
stoic man of reason and logic. Adorned with his family crest atop
his breastplate, Henrig stood glistening in the crackling
firelight, returned to his posture of days passed.

It was as if the words he spoke to Neach
were a burden being lifted off of his shoulders. The more he had
spoken, the more he returned to his normal self. He had sentenced a
young man to death to make a statement, and Neach wondered whether
he was capable of coming to grips with the reality of the
situation. For all of the King’s fervor and anger, he rarely seemed
a violent type. All other options must have been exasperated for
him to be blinded by his fury.

He strolled toward the fireplace, and looked
into the hearth with disdain. Its flames licked at his deep brown
eyes as he stared into the distance. Far beyond the limits of the
stone foundation, the King looked into the soul of the Kingdom he
controlled. Years of service to a nation of his people, his
subjects, on the verge of collapse, because of a rebel force that
threatened to destroy the fabrics of civilized life in
Duncairn.

“Have I told you how my father died, Neach?”
the King asked warily, as his eyes teared from the smoke that slid
out of the grasps of his chimney.

Speaking to the back of King Henrig, Neach
denied hearing this one of his anecdotes.

“It was nearly five years ago, now. My
family lived in the village of Balthusom before we ascended to the
throne. As a boy, my father worked in the mines of Balthusom,
harvesting iron ore, and would take me fishing on the Northern
shore of Duncairn, after the work week was over. We caught large
bluefish, sea robins, and the occasional cold water ling. His
escape was his fishing; it allowed him to escape the smoke and soot
of the mines. When I won the throne, my father refused to leave
Balthusom, and he lived in my childhood home until his death. On a
cold winter’s day, nearly five years ago, my father sat on the
rocks near his boat and watched the ocean go by in front of him,
pulling in and out with various tides. As he sat in his leisure, an
assailant slit his throat from behind and threw him into the ground
beneath him, killing him instantly. The assassin fought under the
flag of the House Goedwig, and was attempting to hold power over me
as I sat atop the throne. They are ruthless, and they do not
appreciate loyalty Neach. If it is up to them, each man and woman
will die until they are the only remaining bloodline,” he took a
breath after his longwinded speech, and looked at Neach.

“And that is why they must die. Every last
one of them must die, eventually,” his voice trailed away, as he
looked back into the fire.

Neach stood in awe, as the King spoke his
feelings to him in such honesty. Unfortunately, the King was
unaware of the accidental surveillance that Neach had done earlier
in his drunken state. Though the alcohol had worn off, he felt
inebriated by the weight of the punishment which the King said
would ultimately await him. He felt drowsy, as he sat in a chair
near to the table. Before he could control himself, he was
careening toward the floor, headfirst.

With a crash, his head collided with the
marble and his world turned to darkness. Everything which had
appeared so clear around him earlier faded gradually to black until
his eyes closed, trapping his mind in their smoky encasement.

Sleep, it seemed, came in many forms.

A red velvet tablecloth was sprawled across
the table, its fringes frosted blue. The fringes were completed
with dark green tassels, which hung down far from the table and
brushed against the knees of the men, who sat at around its
borders.

Outside, a heavy snow fell, as it seemed to
do perpetually.

Snow banks had drifted to the windows of the
old hall, and in some spots it was nearly twelve feet deep. The
people who lived here were used to the conditions, however, as it
never warmed up. Winter was simply a way of describing the year;
cold, dark, and relentless.

The head of the table was occupied by a man
with a large white beard that had been carved exquisitely, a
telling sign of his wealth and prominence. He wore a long black
cloak with a faded blue breastplate. The breastplate was gilded
around the edges of a scene, which depicted two wolves facing each
other.

To his right sat a man who also wore a long
black cloak, but his breastplate was green with gold trim. His
scene depicted a large cat with its paw raised. On his left,
another man with a breastplate, this time of bronze, with a golden
trimmed footprint carved into the metal. The three men sat around
the table and looked out the window, as the man at the head rose to
his feet.

“Gentlemen, I suppose it isn’t necessary to
explain why I have called this meeting, but I will do so
regardless,” his words were met by an instant reply from the man
with the cat atop his breastplate.

“You should do well to explain this,
dragging us to this godforsaken place, to discuss business with the
likes of you,” his voice dripped with anger, but it also held
another quality that was striking. Though they spoke in the tongue
of Duncairn, the man’s accent lent itself to elsewhere within the
world.

“Business has always been a touchy subject
with you, hasn’t it?” the third man spoke, his long blond hair
pulled back behind his hair, allowing for full exposure of the
grand smile he was bearing.

The man with the green breastplate smiled a
smile just as large in response. His dark black beard was well kept
and short in length. His skin looked as if it had been scorched in
the sun for some time, and as a result, it gave off a tanned
glow.

“I’d suggest you quiet yourself, Rodrik,
before you get yourself into trouble which you cannot handle,” the
smile dissipated from his face quickly.

At the head of the table, the old man grew
weary. His thoughts were elsewhere, but this meeting had been
called for a reason.

“If we are done quarreling amongst
ourselves, as I said earlier, it is time to discuss the matters of
this meeting,” his tone grew angrier the further he got into the
sentence.

“South of here, in the Kingdom of Duncairn,
a war is being waged against my people. We seek to defend
ourselves, but I fear the single enemy we face will soon multiply
to many,” when he finished he was greeted with a snort.

“And what would you like us to do about it?”
the man in bronze asked, “we haven’t allied ourselves with the
likes of your people for decades; we will not start now.”

The man in green nodded his head in
concurrence. Tension hung thick over the room, as it threatened to
boil over and cause an open conflict.

“Brothers, I fear this is something we must
overcome. I have reason to believe the Eastmen are looking to
expand westward,” as he spoke, the two men fell silent, looks of
horror upon their faces.

“They haven’t come west for thousands of
years, since the beginning of days. Why would they come now?” the
man in green asked. The look of fear in his face was so apparent,
that it was impossible to hide.

“King Henrig of Duncairn is not pursuing the
extermination of my people himself. He has enlisted the help of
those who reside east of the great expanse. If they are to arrive
on the shores of Lejman, we all face destruction,” once again, the
men looked on in awe. His words pierced the air, as if they were
arrows through thin cloth, leaving their targets writhing and in
pain.

“This simply cannot be true,” the man in
bronze exclaimed, as he stood up.

“I demand some form of proof before I put my
men on standby,” his voice shook as he spoke.

“I had assumed you would say as much,” the
old man said, as he reached inside a book that was sitting on a
shelf behind him.

He withdrew a feather that was colored
purple and green, beautifully pressed in between two pages.

“Do you know what this is?” the old man
asked.

The man in green spoke up this time.

“Is that the feather of the riggibird?” his
eyes grew wide as he approached the old man in shock.

Silently, the man nodded, and placed the
feather back into the book.

“This feather was found outside my residence
on the East side of the island. Therefore, we can assume that they
have arrived on our shores already,” his voice grew quiet as he
concluded.

“Surely if they had already arrived we would
have known?” the man in bronze asked in a whisper.

“Unfortunately, as you are aware, what I
have found here is only a piece of information regarding their
whereabouts. I can assume, in good conscious, that the feather
which I have come in possession of was being carried by a scout.
But, there is no telling when they will make their move. We must
unite before the inevitable happens,” the two men looked at each
other across the table, and the man in green nodded.

“Fine, we stand with you. However, know
this: if our people are led astray by yours again, there will be
things much worse than hell to pay, by the Gods I swear it.” He
stood from the table and walked out of the door, into the falling
snow.

Left in the hall were only the old man and
his tall, young counterpart from Wirnej.

“I apologize for all that has happened in
the past, Rodrik, it truly weighs on my heart every day of my
life,” the old man said.

Scoffing at his statement, Rodrik looked the
old man directly in the eyes before he spoke.

“I will never stop seeking retribution for
what you did to my father, but I will put it aside in the best
interest of my people. Just know, this agreement does not mean we
are friends. We are simply unified by a collective futility,” he
rose as the other man did, his hand clasped over his leg, which
appeared to be wounded.

“Now come, enough of the seriousness and
cold, there’s a fire burning in the mead hall,” his words came as a
singeing respite to the old man. Though he grew weary in his age,
he could always count on both Rodrik and his father to be up to a
pint if it was provided.

As he stood, he smiled a small smile to
himself; though it had not gone completely according to plan, he
hoped he could sleep a little easier at night knowing the people of
the two other Western Kingdoms would support him.

Far across from the old hall, where they had
met, a mead hall brewed with warmth and happiness, as the few
hundred people of the village gathered inside to escape the cold.
It stood tall, taller than any other building, and its peak bore a
carved sea serpent, which protruded high into the white sky.

Thick oak board provided insulation, and
their outsides showed the signs of decay from water damage. In a
place where they were perpetually inundated with snow, it was no
wonder they appeared faded and wet in the blowing winter
drifts.

The old man approached the hall by himself
and pushed hard on the large doors. Their handles had frozen cold.
Dark brass shaped to fit a large man’s hand, they threatened to
crack from the temperature when he grasped them and pushed
forward.

When the doors opened, the desolation of the
outside world evaporated and rose to the heavens. Hundreds of
smiling faces greeted the old man as they sat drinking and dancing.
A man played a lute in the corner and his song sang out into the
warm hall, like a summer bird low on the horizon.

In the center, a large fire hearth burned,
spreading its warmth to every corner of the room, in an effort to
eradicate any cold that attempted to enter.

As he neared the high table at the front of
the room, his wife bowed to him, and he nodded in response. Her
beauty radiated nearly as warm as the fire, and it kindled warmth
within the cold recesses of his heart. The old man stepped up to
the high table and stood in front of his seat at the head of the
table, before turning to those in the hall.

“Family, my friends, my closest peers, help
me in welcoming our guests to Vuler,” when he spoke, the two men
rose to their feet at their respective tables. It seemed that even
this agreement would only be a stepping stone to reuniting the two
leaders.

“I give you, Rodrik of Wirnej and Yahul of
Farrak,” his words were met with a smattering of applause from his
subjects.

“I hope that we can all show them a good
time during their visit; they have travelled a long way to be here
with us,” he smiled as he looked to Rodrik.

When he had finished speaking, he walked to
Yahul and presented him with a flagon of whisky.

“Drink up Yahul, this may be the last time
we can celebrate anything for a very long time.”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? There’s
more to life than this dastardly drink. I think I’ll pass,” he
looked away in disgust at the old man’s request.

Seconds later, he turned back and grabbed
the flagon from the man’s hands, and drank deeply. Whisky ran down
his cheeks, and his face cringed, as he gulped down the massive
portion of alcohol.

“Perhaps life is simpler than I
thought.”

With a laugh, the old man rose from his seat
and headed for Rodrik. He sat by himself, across the hall, fiddling
with a blade against the wooden table.