The Winds of Crowns and Wolves Read online

  The Winds of Crowns and Wolves

  Title Page

  Chapter 17: A Meal

  Chapter 18: Low-Hanging Clouds

  THE WINDS OF CROWNS AND WOLVES

  K. E. WALTER

  Copyright ©2014, 2015, 2016 by Kyle Walter.

  Follow the author @kewalterauthor on Twitter

  Cover art by Matthew McNerney

  Dedication:

  To my parents, who always let my most absurd fantasies run wild.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Shine a Light

  Chapter 2: Resonance

  Chapter 3: Freaks

  Chapter 4: Glow

  Chapter 5: The Freeze

  Chapter 6: Dreams

  Chapter 7: The Girl

  Chapter 8: Mountains

  Chapter 9: A Man about a Book

  Chapter 10: Learn

  Chapter 11: Questions

  Chapter 12: A King

  Chapter 13: Wood Smoke

  Chapter 14: Out of the Forest

  Chapter 15: In the House

  Chapter 16: Atop a Pillar of Hope and Loathing

  Chapter 17: A Meal

  Chapter 18: Low-Hanging Clouds

  Chapter 19: The Dreamer

  Chapter 20: Walk Along the Grapevine, Into the Drunkard’s Demise

  Chapter 21: Burn

  Chapter 22: In the North

  Chapter 23: Drugged and Dreary

  Chapter 24: South to Fletwod

  I

  The sun shone down on the meadow, creating an iridescent green hue, which rose from the grass. Miles and miles of rolling hills and valleys sculpted the area into a beautiful landscape, rife with the vibrant colors of the wild. At night, you could hear the distant howling of animals, scampering in the far corners of the woodland.

  Nestled in a small crevice of the Kingdom of Duncairn, was a small village. Unimportant, and equally unimpressive upon first gaze, Spleuchan Sonse, as it was known to its inhabitants, peered out into a vast meadow, unencumbered by the hills which rose up on both sides. A small collection of straw huts, which looked as if they had been hand crafted centuries earlier, lined the flatland.

  The night earlier, a couple had ventured over the hill to the east and found themselves stranded in the grassy knoll outside the village. The woman, many months pregnant and exhausted, sat herself down near a small creek that ran adjacent to the eastern hill.

  “N’er in a thousand years could I have dreamt of this”, whispered Seosamh.

  The sun peered over the eastern hill behind them and cast a shadow over the majority of the valley. Shivering from the early morning cold, Maire responded with a simple nod to acknowledge Seosamh’s statement.

  “Y’know, there’s not much else we can do from here m’dear, we must simply wait,” a belabored Seosamh said, as he sat down beside his wife, in what was more of a collapse from exhaustion than rest.

  The trip had taken its toll on the both of them, but Maire had taken the brunt of it. As the sun rose on that winter’s morning, the people of Spleuchan Sonse remained asleep, unaware of the visitors in the plain a half mile ahead of them.

  The first to rise was Isbeil. It wasn’t uncommon for her to rise so early; after all, she had to tend to the food before her family awoke. In the room next to the kitchen, Asgall and Ealar slept. Her husband and son respectively, Isbeil took pride in the work she did, as it made their day simpler when they set out to cull the land for farming.

  Only a few months the prior, Isbeil had given birth to Ealar on a hot summer’s day. The entire village rejoiced in reverence of her son’s birth, and her husband could not have been more pleased with his little boy.

  Isbeil went to work, cutting the meat and bread. In a short while, the hut would be filled with the scent of sustenance, as the men of the village began their days. She peered out the slit of her hut at the frosty grass outside as she finished her preparations.

  This year’s winter had been unfavorable to her family. The crop yields were low, and they had barely managed to survive to this point. Luckily, the snow had held off as much as possible, but the relentless freezing temperatures made it nearly impossible for anything to grow.

  A few days earlier, Asgall had proposed the idea to his wife of moving south to the coast, in hopes that they would find more fertile soil and habitable weather conditions. Although the thought of a fruitful journey southward persisted throughout Isbeil’s mind, on this morning, she could not help but be grateful for all of the things she had been blessed with in her life.

  Her son had been born healthy, into a loving community, and had managed to survive thus far through the winter. He had his father’s eyes, but his nose resembled his mother’s more.

  She gazed into the distance, while Seosamh and Maire remained huddled in the field, awaiting the birth of their child. Wrapped in an egregious amount of blankets and even Seosamh’s own robe, Maire looked up at him with affection, as the two sat gazing upon the hill to the west.

  “What do you think will come of this Seosamh?” she asked in a raspy voice, induced from the sleepless night that she endured the night before.

  With a steely look in his eye as he gazed westward, Seosamh maintained his usual collected nature.

  “I don’t think,” he proclaimed in a hushed voice, “I simply feel, and the feeling I have in my heart is that the world knows what is best for our child, not us.”

  In a sort of sigh, labored with the anxiety and exhaustion of a thousand lives, Maire validated her husband’s point.

  The first rooster crowed above the village home, as Maire and Seosamh fell to sleep on the hillside. The smell of smoked sausages permeated the hut, and a stumbling Asgall entered the room, where Isbeil had made a fire.

  “This is quite the meal for the situation we find ourselves in, isn’t it dear?” asked Asgall, a perplexed look upon his face.

  “Something about today,” said Isbeil, “it feels different from the others. Maybe the Gods have blessed us with a turn in the weather and a more prosperous harvest!” she exclaimed.

  In disbelief, as well as an exhaustion conceived haze, Asgall sat upon the chair he was given as a gift for the birth of his son, and began eating what his wife had prepared.

  “So have you given any more thought into the movement southward? It must be done before it is too late,” a tired, yet alert, Asgall asked. Even in his most energy deprived times he maintained a clear focus on what was best for his family.

  “I think we should give it some time dear. The weather is known to change here at every moment, and we have a home here. Spleuchan Sonse is what we’ve always known, and I refuse to abandon it just yet,” an adamant Isbeil claimed.

  Somewhat stunned by his wife’s proclamation of faith toward the land, Asgall continued to eat the food she had laid out before him. In a short while, he would venture toward the meadow where the townspeople held plots of land; hoping to find a surprising increase of growth, Asgall spent the rest of his morning meal in silent prayer, professing his faith to the gods and asking for their assistance in this time of trial.

  It was customary in the village to pray for help with crops. They believed that without any superior guidance, they would falter in any endeavor they engaged in. In the moments following Asgall’s prayer, a loud panting could be heard echoing through the valley.

  Maire had awoken only an hour or so after her initial rest. To her surprise, as well as discomfort, her water had broken, and she began to contract. Startled by the heavy breathing of his wife, Seosamh awoke with as much vigilance as if he had never succumbed to the sweet reprieve of rest in the first place.

  For the next few hours, Maire labored and screamed while she gave birth to
a baby boy. Seosamh removed his robe from his wife’s body and wrapped his son in it. For a mere moment, a rush of warmth could be felt throughout the valley.

  “You know what this means, we must go,” said Seosamh. His look of determination was etched into the very fibers of his face, as he held his wife in his arms and carried her over the hill eastward.

  On the eastern hill in the valley outside of Spleuchan Sonse, a baby boy lay cradled in his father’s robe. Nothing else could be found beside him except for a stone which had a name marked into it. “Coinneach” it read, scratched deep into the surface of the black, smooth rock.

  As the sun continued its ascent into the sky above the grassy meadow, the silhouettes of the two travelers could be seen descending downward over the eastern hill, until their figures were inadmissible to the naked eye. They had arrived and left, as quickly as the morning dew that would have covered this very meadow on a warm summer day.

  Asgall had slowly made his way from his home, towards the meadow which was steadfastly approaching.

  It was times like this when his mind wandered. In reality, he was bound for his crops, but in his mind, he travelled back in time, to a period when he and his wife were newly married. He could picture the day as if it were only hours earlier: Isbeil strutting fluidly toward him, encased in a silk gown, which had been purchased in Leirwold only a few weeks earlier for this specific occasion.

  Leirwold was the largest urban center in proximity to Spleuchan Sonse.

  The people there are different, Asgall pondered.

  Life in the village was simpler.

  He snapped out of his growing anger toward the city, and returned to the thoughts of his beloved Isbeil. She had looked so beautiful in that gown, her skin radiating with the passion of one hundred suns, and her cheeks the color of a newly ripened apple, just plucked from the orchard.

  The two had traveled along the river just west of the village that day, and found themselves at the entrance to a large sea. There, in the summer dusk, he held his wife in his arms and watched the sunset upon the horizon of the dark waters, which embodied the sea.

  It was not unlike Asgall to lose himself in memories of the past. The current weather and lack of resources that the village found itself plagued by made life seem much more desirable back in that time.

  Awoken from his daydream by a cold wind, he continued on his way to the plot of land his family had held for generations.

  A modest field, it held enough room to yield a few hundred bushels of corn in a good year, along with a few dozen bushels of tomatoes. Much of the meadow was untouched, and that was how the elders wished it would remain. The relationship between humans and nature was something they revered and held in the utmost importance.

  The sun began to raise high into the sky and the morning frost was slowly retreating back into the depths from which it came. As it became completely visible over the eastern hill, it struck a shiny black stone which was located only a few hundred yards in front of Asgall’s plot.

  Lacking interest in his abysmal crop yield, Asgall took the liberty of venturing toward the medium sized rock which he had seen hundreds of times prior. It provided a sense of solace in such woeful conditions for him to sit atop the rock and gaze out at the western hill.

  He neared the rock and at once, a shrill cry could be heard emanating from what seemed like the depths of the very Earth.

  Just on the other side of the rock from Asgall’s plot, sat a baby, wrapped in a cloth robe. Bewildered, he rushed to its side to make sure it was still living. To his shock, the baby seemed to be in perfect health, if not for the poor conditions it found itself in. Scrawled into the rock which the baby had been placed beside was the word “Coinneach”.

  “A name,” Asgall exclaimed, “the boy has a name.”

  II

  It was an unseasonably warm morning when Neach bound from his bed and into the center of his home. However, there was good reason for his excitement. Today marked his fourteenth birthday, and it was today that he would become a man.

  For years, Neach awaited it. In the village, a boy was not a man until now, when he took up his father’s axe and cut down a tree from atop the western hill.

  His father, Asgall, had prepared the blade of his axe days before and anxiously awaited his son outside of the hut.

  The excitement of the day was tangible, and both the father and son acknowledged its presence. Once the ritual was finished, Neach would be expected to take over his father’s role in the house to provide protection and a plentiful harvest.

  The two met outside of the hut and began walking in silent cooperation. Neither spoke a word, yet it was as if their feet were connected by an imaginary string, as they walked in unison toward the clearing at the top of the hill.

  From a few hundred yards away, one specific tree stood out to Neach. It was a tall yew, which towered above all of the rest. He made it his goal and attempted to motivate himself before their ascent was completed.

  He wanted this day to be unforgettable, a memory which would leave a lasting imprint on his mind as he began to care for his family and eventually, his wife. By taking down such a large yew, he would be showing a sign of intent. The sign would represent the ambition he harbored and the determination with which he would do all things in the name of his family.

  Similar thoughts ran through Asgall’s head as they reached the summit of the hill. He had been planning for years to use this ceremony as an opportunity to shed light on the situation which led him to discovering his son on the eastern hill so many years ago. But for now, all that he could consider was the celebration, which would ensue following the tree’s demise.

  After the long journey from their hut, the two men stood atop the hill, gazing over their village below them. The scene was beautiful, almost as if it were not seen, but painted on a canvas for all to look upon in awe. A myriad of purples, oranges, and blues lit up the sky as the sun set behind them. It was tradition to wait until the sun was fully vanished before you first set the axe into the trunk of the tree.

  The sun reached its final destination below the horizon, and disappeared with its trademark flash of green, right before it sunk away.

  Neach and his father sat beneath the beautiful, old, yew.

  “Son, when I was your age, I had to take on the same responsibility,” explained Asgall.

  “And for every tree you cut down, every crop you harvest, know that is in the best interest of your family; nothing else shall come before this.” Asgall had endured this process only a few months earlier, but there was something interesting about the way Neach handled himself. Ealar, his first born son, had chosen a small oak, located at the top of the western hill as his target.

  With a swift three swings of Asgall’s axe, Ealar had dislodged the tree from its roots and the ritual had ended. The tree Neach had chosen intrigued Asgall. Its long branches and thick trunk would surely provide a challenge.

  His breath was visible in the chill of the post dusk time. With each breath, a burst of smoke emanated from his mouth and curled about as if it were a dancing fairy, floating toward the cosmos. He and his son sat in silence for an eternity, gazing at the village they called home and the vast meadow located directly next to it.

  It was in this moment that Asgall felt at peace.

  Fourteen years ago, when he had collected Neach’s infant body from behind that rock, he was unsure of the future, but his faith helped him make an abrupt decision and raise him like his own son.

  Now, as they sat atop the hill, Asgall wondered what was next. He had longed, since Neach was a young boy, to tell him of his parents. Though he did not know them, he felt it was necessary to disclose said information.