The Winds of Crowns and Wolves

by K. E. Walter

  “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.

  “I hope you can forgive me for angering you two earlier,” the old man said with a smile on his face.

  “We both know that you are never deserving of forgiveness,” he rebuked without looking up from the table.

  A silence hung over the two of them, as they sat separately from the rest of the hall.

  “Rodrik, I’m sorry for what happened to your father,” the old man spoke quietly to the younger man who looked strikingly like the father he once knew.

  “It was out of my control, he did not care to hear the words I spoke. His mind betrayed him. He was one of my best friends when we were young, I would not have let him go willingly,” the old man spoke as a single tear built up in his left eye. He quickly wiped it away, and turned his head slowly away from Rodrik.

  “A lot of good your sentiments do, when my father is either dead or toiling about somewhere in the western sea,” and with that, he rose again and walked toward the door. He thrust it open, as he stepped into the dark night.

  The old man followed behind him and slipped into the darkness.

  “You’re going to need to control your temper if we are to be successful, Rodrik. I can understand if you won’t forgive me, but don’t let my people, or, your people, for that matter, suffer because of it,” as he spoke, his breath shot out in front of him, illuminated by the moonlight. The sky was clear, and thousands of stars joined the moon in a nighttime dance across the wide expanse.

  “Do not tell me what to do old man, you had best remember that you are the one who called me here, because you needed help,” he looked the man directly in the eyes as he spoke, “I can just as easily sail back to Lejman and do my best to stay out of whatever problem you’ve created for yourself,” Rodrik’s words cut deep into the old man. He feared every day that this war would ultimately be grafted from his hand, but his words validated those fears.

  “If we are to prevail, we need to be a unified force, as we were years ago, during the Godless times,” the very mention of the period caused Rodrik to shudder. Impossible to discern his shudder from one caused by the cold, he chattered his teeth and walked back toward the door.

  “Perhaps unity can only result after complete desolation,” he said, as he opened the door to enter the hall again.

  As the door creaked open, a loud crow was heard echoing throughout the village. High above the ground, a large beast flew through the sky, directly in front of the moon.

  Rodrik looked up in awe as the old man’s jaw threatened to crash into the snow beneath it.

  “The riggibird.”

  XXIII

  It all came rushing back to him.

  As if flood gates opened and water poured in, in the form of color and defined shapes. He couldn’t be sure how long it had been since he passed out, but he knew it must have been some time, because the sun had risen on a new day.

  “What happened?” he asked sheepishly.

  Over top of him, Jenos stood with a bowl of water, dabbing his forehead and cheeks. Her touch was gentle, and each dab was filled with affection.

  “I couldn’t let you two speak alone forever, I wasn’t sure what he’d do,” her words sounded surprisingly calm for the situation they found themselves in.

  “Don’t worry, my father thinks you fainted on your own accord,” she spoke sweetly, but her eyes lent themselves to a night spent thinking of the inner guilt she felt for putting Neach in this position.

  “How exactly did you do this?” he questioned as he stared at the ceiling. A great mural had been painted depicting a grandiose struggle between good and evil, and it loomed over the room like a brazen old warrior.

  If only it were that simple, he thought to himself.

  Jenos sat down beside him before she spoke further. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had cried a thousand tears, and her nails were chewed off in haste. Neach knew of the reason for her sorrow, but he couldn’t tell her what he had seen.

  “In your drink after I met with my father. I had a portion of sleeping pills that I stole from the Castle’s infirmary: a collection of herbs. You seemed not to notice,” she whispered coolly, as she kissed his forehead.

  He was unsure whether to thank her or be angry. He had witnessed the King’s proclamation of his true identity, yet he felt he needed to conceal it further.

  “I heard you two talking last night,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Surprisingly, the princess seemed unsurprised by this news. It was as if she had known all along.

  “Then, in that case, you know that what I did was somewhat of a necessity,” she looked out the window as she spoke, and Neach thought he saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye. She rose to her feet abruptly and walked to the open air.

  “There is a great war coming, Neach,” she spoke again, but with more fire in her words.

  “I know, I know. Every blasted person from here to Jorwel has told me of it. If there was something I could do, I would gladly end it before it begins,” he sat up, as he grew angrier by the minute.

  Knowing she had struck a nerve, she returned to the bed side and caressed his knee.

  “You have more of a responsibility than you know Coinneach,” she smiled sweetly as she gazed into his eyes, “I fear you do not know the full scale of the conflict which brews in the distance,” she looked away again, but returned her eyes just as quickly.

  “I need to keep you alive, Neach. You may be the only sane person left in this Kingdom,” she spoke nothing of the love the two shared for one another, but simply of the ramifications war would have on the Kingdom. She was truly the King’s daughter, and she kept her eyes steadfast on the ultimate goal, which was the safety and security of Duncairn’s borders, both exterior and interior.

  She chuckled lightly as she finished her sentence. Though her eyes were marked by heavy bags, her dark black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that revealed her slightly pointed ears. Her green eyes shone in the early morning sunlight, and Neach reached up to kiss her, as he pushed her hair behind her ears.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion that even the sanest of men are not wholly aware of the depth of their troubles, my lady,” he faked a bow in bed as he laughed louder than she had. Somehow in this tense moment, the two found a way to look past the night before.

  As they sat in the room, celebration was beginning with song and dance, occupying the whole of the courtyard. In a few hours’ time, he would be expected to kill the King.

  A drunken man approached the window with a bottle in his hand, and smiled as he did a jig. He bore no teeth in his smile, spare a scraggly canine that looked as dangerous as any knife Neach had ever seen. Soon enough, he backed away and returned to the festivities, which were ongoing.

  “I suppose you are aware that my father knows who you are,” Jenos asked, returning to the more serious business that presided.

  “Indeed I do. Tell me, Jenos, Princess of Duncairn, why is it you have chosen to spare my life?”

  His eyes shimmered as he looked deep into the green pastures where her eyes should have been. When he looked into them, he not only saw the present, but the past and parts of the future. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, as it tended to do.

  “Perhaps I like you,” she began, rubbing his leg, “Or perhaps I feel my father is blinded by rage. Either way, you’ve made a good impression on me, farmer boy,” she smiled again as she looked at Neach. A few months removed from his home, the young man who was accustomed to tending the fields now sat with the Princess in a room which was furnished with the finest silks and linens.