by K. E. Walter
Soon, they reached the top and the staircase opened up to the Castle’s battlements, which hung over the city like a daunting guard, crafted in metal. Large archers’ towers and ballistae lined the wall for as far as Neach could see. In the darkness of the night, only their tops were illuminated by the moon.
“Come along, Coinneach, we’re going to ascend one of these here towers,” the King said with conviction. Though his age fought against him, he fought back with a might to maintain his youthful sense of adventure.
The climb was daunting to say the least. The only method of ascension was a rickety ladder, attached to the side of the fifty foot face of the back end of the tower. Neach climbed cautiously behind the King, knowing full well that if he were to fall he would surely take him with him.
By the grace of the Gods, the two men made it into the open air housing at the top of the tower. What Neach saw, when he peered over the edge, was even more impressive than the view from atop the tower near his room.
His vision went on unencumbered for miles, as he looked out beyond the city limits to the darkness of the wild pastures, which stretched far outside of the King’s imminent domain. The moonlight sparkled on the top of the rivers’ waters, and Neach could make out the outline of the mountains near his village low on the horizon.
“What do you think?” the King asked with a playful smile.
It would have been hard to hide his excitement and happiness at this moment, and Neach made little effort to do so.
“I’m surprised there hasn’t been a damned picture painted of this scene, your highness,” Neach said, not realizing he had just cursed at the King.
Alas, the King chuckled lightly and rebuked with concurrence.
“Tis true that this may very well be the best view in the entire Kingdom, but if it were painted it would cheapen the experience,” Henrig responded.
Neach received the words silently and thought about the peculiar situation he now found himself in. How had he ended up here, with the King? He had taken a strange liking to him since his performance at the auditions.
As if reading his mind, Henrig validated Neach’s thoughts.
“You know, Coinneach, there is a certain spark about you which I admire,” he scratched at the bottom of his beard as he thought about his next words carefully, “What you did in your audition is unparalleled to anything I’ve ever seen before. The audacity required to pull off that move is uncanny; perhaps in another life you would have manned this tower yourself, under the flag of Duncairn,” he concluded.
Neach had never considered fighting for the crown. As a child, he knew little of the distant land that was Leirwold, and even less about the elite warriors who were recruited to fight under the King’s command.
“I have never had a taste for blood, sir,” Neach offered.
“It is most definitely an acquired thing; some of the noblest warriors never truly accepted their fate as blood merchants. Unfortunately, it is both unforgiving and a necessity to maintain order in a land as vast as our Kingdom,” the King looked off in the distance as his tone fell somber.
Neach chewed on the King’s words for a few moments and wondered what he was referring to. Was it the incessant slaughter required to ascend to the position he now held, or was it the merciless killing required to eradicate the members of his House from ousting him from the position he felt he deserved?
“I had a wife, Coinneach, when I was much younger than I am now. When my hair was as black as the sky we now look up at, and my bones knew nothing of the heartache and pain they now harbor,” Neach couldn’t decipher whether this was coming on from pure good intention or the alcohol, but he listened nonetheless.
“Her name was Silvia. She was as beautiful as our daughter, if not more so. We were married at seventeen, and our daughter was born not six years later. Her passion for the Kingdom and myself ultimately led to her demise, unfortunately. She contracted sickness when Jenos was a mere child, and refused treatment to maintain the strength of our rule over the Kingdom. If I would have known that she was doing something so foolish, I would have provided the treatment myself,” a tear welled up in the corner of his left eye which he promptly wiped away.
A thick silence hung over the two men as they peered out over the wall and into the sea of candlelight that was Leirwold at night. Fires could be seen burning just north of the Castle where the homeless and destitute laid their heads for the night.
“I fear a war is coming, Coinneach,” the King turned his gaze toward the young man again.
“I know not when it will happen, but I can feel it in my bones. Rebel groups are forming as the days pass, and it is only a matter of time before they unify under the guise of removing me from my position atop the throne. It is my duty to maintain cohesion of this Kingdom, and if it costs me my own life, then it will be so. My wife did the same, and I will not let her death be in vein,” he concluded as he removed his hands from the edge of the tower. They were ashen from many dry days without moisture, in which he had wielded both a sword and the edges of a pulpit.
“If you fear this war is coming, what do you plan to do about it, your highness?” Neach asked timidly. He did not want to push too hard on the King fearing that it would make him suspicious.
“Plans are the ultimate downfall of the smartest men, Coinneach. In order to survive and succeed, one must take each day in stride. No amount of preparation can prepare a man for making the ultimate sacrifice if necessary.”
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.”
XVIII
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.