Of Bones and Blood
An original work of fiction by Alek Wise. Any characters resembling real people in this work are pure coincidence, as are any events or situations relating to real life. Please feel free to comment (constructive, positive comments only please. Negative comments will be disregarded) at your leisure by emailing me directly at alekwise84 (at) gmail (dot) com. Enjoy!
Chapter Two
The City of Smiles
Terrek Gok laughed insatiably as he rolled off his female companion and onto the silk sheets that had once flowed upon the down mattress in a tidy fashion.
"Where have you been hiding all my long years, girl?" His voice was husky, cracked, and accompanied a foul odor, the intensity of which was paralleled only by the stench emulating from his obese body. "If the brothels of Tirist'then trained our whores as well as these, we'd have lost the Great War and all the Seats to the ravenous butchers of the north."
The young, silver haired girl feigned a smile and let the glimmer of her eyes speak in place of her voice. She propped herself on one elbow and looked at the Lord Commander in mock fascination. She watched as the old fool smiled to himself and stroked the coarse hair on his chin. He starred at the ceiling for a moment before be broke the silence again.
"How I wish my wives could learn to please a man as you. Childbirth so wilts the flowers of pleasure."
"Will you be visiting with us again, my Lord?" she asked in an effort to ignore his nonsensical comments.
"I suspect my head will find its way to the King's display should I delay my business further." The girl mocked an expression of sadness.
"I suspect also that it's a rare thing in the City of Smiles to find a man that's competent and able." The girl nodded as a mother would to a troubled child. The Lord Commander bit harshly on every hook she cast into the stagnate waters.
A knock at the door deterred the Lord Commander from further regaling the girl with absurd assurances of his sexual prowess.
"What?" the Lord Commander barked. The door opened to reveal a shuddering, shaken squire. The girl surmised that the Lord Commander could easily have been triple the boy's size.
"Forgive me," the boy managed. "You're presence is deman-- requested at the council table." The squire, no older than fifteen, kept his eyes trained on the floor-conditioning which had, no doubt, been beaten into the child.
"Don't just stand there, you slow fool. Ensure my horse waits at the door."
The squire stumbled but managed to close the door once again.
The constant insults and reprimands made the girl wonder if the Lord Commander might look more presentable to his audience with a jeweled dagger embedded in his back. She kept such things to herself, however, and ensured her facial expressions were in check. It was not the place of a commoner, a whore no less, to question the actions of a nobleman. Such were the harsh lessons she was forced to learn so long ago.
"My sweet whore," the man continued as he turned back to his prize. "We will meet again."
He smiled a disgusting smile and kissed her tenderly. She was certain they both would taste her breakfast if he did not release her soon.
"I am counting the days, my Lord."
...
The Council of Eight should have been named the Council of Seven. One of its ruling members was notorious for arriving whenever it suited him. His presence made the council less effective and more hated by the peoples of the Great Kingdom.
"Perhaps we should announce the declaration of a new holiday." Councilor Sha Jin made it a point to speak candidly as Lord Commander Terrek Gok threw open the chamber doors of the court, behind him his squire fidgeted madly within his shadow.
"All businesses shall close their doors upon the Lord Commander's arrival to our city, if it ensures a mark in his punctuality." The council members smirked and some laughed outright.
"My lovely Councilor Jin," Terrek said with outstretched arms and mock affection. "If every city in the great kingdom celebrated my every arrival, the northern world would surely surpass us in studies and trade." He paused for effect. "Then even your daughters would be fit for nothing more than common brothel rats. Though, your daughters are rather able in a scrawny, malnourished fashion, I hear."
Sha slammed her hands to the tabletop and rebounded from her seat to present a rigid, intolerant woman. The other members of the council sat in wait. They wondered if the conflict would come to a head. Even the Chief, who calmly stroked the long white beard that grew from his aging face, had resigned himself to a chance outcome.
"My daughters," Sha began slowly, "are noble, valiant, and honorable, which is certainly more than I can say for your many wives. Tell us, Lord Commander, how many served in brothels? How many commoners did you bed then later wed, and how many of your fine daughters are specialists in the physical pleasures? I often wonder, my Lord, do you use them as you use your slave-wives?
"You've soiled your fathers noble name. You're children will surpass your vileness only in their numbers and, should luck be on our side, they will serve as a reminder to the Great Kingdom that an honorable man's loyalty is to his kingdom and not his groin!"
Terrek fell silent for many moments. Sha's heated outburst left the chamber eerily silent. Terrek's squire had backed slowly through the doors in retreat.
Sha collected herself, brushed the wrinkles from her blue robes, and took her seat once again. The remaining six councilors turned to stare at Terrek in utter amazement. The awkwardness was thick and hung in the atmosphere like a foul odor.
Suddenly, Terrek snickered and began laughing. Sha had no reaction. She found no humor in their quarrel. It was obvious to everyone present that his chuckling was a means of fighting off his embarrassment and his burning anger.
"A woman should never speak in such a fowl manner. One day," Terrek stated straight-faced, "you will need my help." He paused to further punctuate his point as he leaned in closely with his palms on the table. His grimace had surfaced fully. With a snarl and a low, scratching voice he continued, "On that day, you will be at the mercy of the Fates and only the silence of the night will answer the horrible cries of your beloved family."
"Lord Gok!" Chief Councilor Archbald Magebane announced with a harsh thump of his cane against the marble floor. His tolerance had faded. His long, white beard trembled in anger and his narrow eyes clearly communicated that he had reached the end of his tether. Terrek backed slowly away from an enraged Sha.
"Might I suggest we move on to more pressing matters," Lord Robb Theres of the City of Smiles was treading carefully as he spoke. Robb was known for his uncanny ability to manipulate any situation. He could woo the mightiest kings and rally every commoner in the great kingdom to the uncanniest of causes. His manipulative nature was cleverly concealed behind a mask of innocence. His bald head and dark skin were a unique counterpoint to his ivory robes.
"Indeed," the Chief Councilor agreed.
"My Lords and Ladies," Lord Wilamm Scuto began as he stood from his seat. Terrek reluctantly sat as Wilamm began to speak, all under the watchful eyes of Lady Sha Jin.
"It surely has not escaped your notice that Southland is in dire need of the Council's assistance. Winter has come to Southland. Our trade roads have frozen solidly. The dense jungle that once surrounded our beautiful fortress has been blanketed with ice and snow. Even as I stand before you, our people starve and freeze. If we cannot open the roads to trade wagons, then our people will surely die."
"What is it you ask of this council, Lord Scuto? We cannot control the weather," Terrek began.
"Indeed not," Wilamm responded. "Lord Denetress has issued a work order. The peoples of Southland work with horse and plow to clear the ice and drifting snow from the trade routes that extend to Brandyshire. We ask for volunteers from Sulon Lo, Brandyshire, and the Mystvale to ensure the roads remain clear until this winter madness passes. They will be heavily compensated for their charity, of course."
Wilamm looked about the council table as he spoke. His deep voice had always granted him attention when he felt it was necessary. It was obvious to those at the table that he was hoping his words would carry weight. Inwardly, Wilamm hoped that those he had long considered friends would be content to confirm their loyalties.
"I believe I speak for the peoples of Mystvale when I say that our thoughts and hopes are with the peoples of Southland. Any assistance we are able to spare shall be yours, my Lord," Brand Tholwilde, a nobleman of Mystvale and friend to many in the Great Kingdom, was the first to offer aide.
"Your honor and reputation for charity precede you, Councilor. We shall be in your debt."
"My Lords and Lady," Lady Aniah Ridgewater started. She was one of two women on the council, and hailed from the Barren Isles just off the eastern coast of the Great Kingdom. Her short black hair, slender form, and red skin complimented her navy robes. She had caught many eyes in her youth and often used her exotic beauty to spin the game of politics to her advantage.
"I must say that tales of the Darklings' return have reached even our corner of this world. We are safe on our islands, but I admit I was reluctant to travel. I fear the roads shrouded in mist, and there are rumors that Darklings linger in the south, in this...winter." Aniah paused for a moment. There was a chill in her tone and an uneasiness laced within her posture. "Forgive me, Lord Scuto. My people are a superstitious lot. I will forward your call for assistance, but you should not expect quick aide from the Barren Isles." Wilamm nodded in reluctant understanding.
"We've come to cope with your people's weakness, Ridgewater," Terrek hissed. "Nonetheless, the Darklings have been extinct for fifteen years. The Great War purged this kingdom of such atrocities."
Aniah sat with flushed cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off inadvertently.
"Do not be mundane," Roan Vyce, a Gael N'Aem and the youngest council member to ever serve the Great Kingdom, said brashly. At twenty-seven years of age, Roan had earned the respect of the Temple of the Sun, and most of the acting members of the Council of Eight. Terrek had been his enemy since his first session at the table, however.
"'Purged' is a definitive word," Roan continued. "The Great Kingdom suffered substantial losses fifteen years ago, and celebrated a noble victory at the end of Great War. Despite all of this...they are not extinct, these Darklings. Rather, they are merely biding their time in the dark, cold places of the world."
"And what do you know of Darklings, tiny wizard?" Terrek's tone was lined with cynicism and hate. "We did celebrate a noble victory, but at the sacrifice of the bones and the blood of our people while your kind hid away in the so-called noble towers of Lake M'Lora toying with your potions and magic powders." Terrek made several infantile gestures with a free hand while Roan sat straight-faced. He let the old fool's insults fly casually by.
"Do you so easily forget the mountain prison?" Roan asked blatantly. Terrek stood slowly. He clearly had a scroll's worth of argumentative nonsense at quick recall.
"All this childish banter aside..." Aniah said loudly as she took a firm hold on the conversation once again. "The simple fact remains that they did exist and could very well be among us even as we speak. How can we expect our peoples to defend their lands and care for their families if such vile threats lurk upon their doorsteps?"
Terrek sighed in frustration and the Chief righted himself to speak.
"Let us not concern ourselves with inconclusive possibilities, and juvenile tittle-tattle," the Chief said at long last. "The decision to offer aide lays well within the respectable rights of your Lords and Ladies. If you believe it be an unsafe commitment, then simply do not speak." He looked firmly at his table of councilors. "We shall save these dark tales for a later campfire."
The conversation tangent having been righted, Sha cleared her throat and began to speak.
"The people of the Cobalt Strip will come to your aide as well," she announced as she turned to regard Wilamm, who still stood before his seat at the table.
"You are most kind, Lady Jin," Wilamm smiled to ensure his gratitude was communicated to all of the council members, and then he took his seat.
"What word from Southland?" asked the Chief Councilor in his tired, anguished tone. His body was clearly plagued by fatigue.
"None insofar, Chief," Wilamm responded. "I am awaiting a message via feather, but we all know that our doves are not fond of cold weather. Any that might have been released could likely have flown to safety rather than to a homing destination."
"Indeed," the Chief said. "...spastic little bastards." Every council member at the table chuckled at his playful banter. It brought a much-needed lightness to the heavy atmosphere that had been circulating.
"My young Lord Roan Vyce," the Chief further announced. Vyce straightened his youthful form and looked down the length of the table to see the Chief starring in his direction. "A Gael N'Aem was recently dispatched to investigate the situation plaguing the Southland fortress and its people, was he not?"
"So I am told," the young Gael N'Aem responded.
"Use whatever means you must to establish communication. I want to know precisely what this winter has bestowed upon our southern brothers and sisters."
"At once, of course." Roan caught a look of disapproval from Terrek, but as with so many other occasions he let such actions go 'unnoticed'.
The Chief then announced, "If there are no further concerns we shall adjourn."
...
Evoran Bree stood as silent as the Wisps of the Night in the Vilethorn Vale. The flames of the funeral pyre caressed his pale, youthful skin. The scent of burnt wood and charred flesh perfumed the evening air.
He watched as the flames wrought ash and smoke from the crisp timbers, and cast a luminous brilliance upon his brother's still face. A single tear trekked from his eyes to his chin, and pooled upon the rough-woven hood his mother wore atop her still auburn hair. He had forgotten for a moment that he held her in his arms as she wept, but only for a moment.
The reality of the situation, the gravity of it, weighed heavily upon his family and the mysterious nature of his brother's death kindled rumors of Darklings, Fates, and all other manner of dark creatures supposedly encroaching on the villages of A'Menth Tara. Such rumors were merely hearsay, but all of them served to fuel an already thriving flame.
Evoran looked to those in attendance at the ceremony. He knew everyone within the circular chain of people who surrounded his brother's platform, but he knew some better than others.
The village Father was present. The old gentlemen spoke at every wedding and funeral within the village circle. He spotted Sir Willhor Serpth also, the first to be knighted from A'Menth Tara and once the right hand of the King. Now retired, his battle-hardened complexion seemed as ruthless by the light of the flames as it did by the light of the sun. His retirement from the King's forces brought a gentle, warm side to his surface and he came to be a favorite of the local children-one of which was present for the ceremony.
Danel, Evoran's younger brother, watched the red, orange, and blue fires that danced ritualistically upon their sibling's rigid body. Danel seemed lost amid the flames-flames that seemed to laugh tauntingly as they crackled and popped. Evoran pulled him close and the family of three shared in their grief for several long minutes until the flames of the fire grew so strong they were forced to back further away.
Evoran did not sleep that night. A haunting image of his brother, alive and treading the fresh waters of a nearby river, played repeatedly in his mind's eye.
They had gone swimming the day of his brother's death. Evoran had left the riverbanks earlier than he intended to carry little Danel home. The young boy, no more than ten years of age, had scratched his foot on a shard of sand glass-a wound that had since all but healed. When Evoran returned a mere hour later he found Athyus had gone.
A search ensued later that evening when Athyus did not return home. A trader found him the next morning. He was alive though on the verge of death, lying in the West Road that led far to the northeast, to the border to the Vilethorn Vale and Brandyshire. The cries and pleas of his family and friends proved a futile remedy. Athyus did not last the day and his spirit left his body before sundown.
Danel had cried himself to sleep the night of the funeral. The poor lad had exhausted himself emotionally. Evoran was convinced that Danel still did not understand the true nature of death, and that he would all too soon discover its harsh finality.
The three had shared a bedchamber since birth. This night without Athyus seemed the greatest test of all. His death weighed heavily upon Evoran, who mourned with muted breathing and tightly sealed eyes. Through the thinly constructed walls of their ragged shack he heard his mother sobbing. Her dampened cries fueled his grief. He wished she would succumb to sleep as Danel had, but he knew she would not.
The following morning came at a restless price. Evoran found himself in the stables as he always did, but fatigue and loss still plagued him. He tended his chores at first light; afterward he tended to Athyus's, and then Danel's. He was ready to begin cooking a harsh breakfast when his mother trailed from her bedchamber. She clasped Evoran by the arm gently.
"You're a good son, Evoran. So was Athyus and so is Danel." Evoran did not speak. He did not want to acknowledge that Athyus was as good son. It was a simple concept in his mind. Athyus is a good son. "Your father, Fates protect him, would have been so proud of his boys." Evoran could not respond. Rather, perhaps he did not wish to respond.
His mother's voice was hoarse, but her touch soothed what her words could not. "He will forever live in you, Evoran," she then said. "In all of us."
Evoran swallowed and blinked stiffly before turning and offering a smile to his mother. That was simply all he could manage. He feared the rage he knew would surface if he gave in to grief fully-a trait he attributed to his father.
"I'm going to fetch milk," was his broken response. "Would you like eggs this morning?"
"Just milk," his mother responded weakly after a long moment. With hidden protest she released her son and watched him walk slowly from their home to stables.
The villages that comprised A'Menth Tara sat high upon the Thundering Bluffs, the southwest coastline of the Great Kingdom. The view of the surrounding kingdom had always been daunting to Evoran. On a clear day he could see all they way to Southland and as far north as the Mystvale Mountains.
Dreadfully cold sights had plagued the southeastern sky for weeks. Grey snow clouds occasionally highlighted by brilliant flashes of lightening loomed over the southern-most shores-the Silver Strand and Southland, home of the Ivory Seat. The looming storms seemed to grow stronger by the day. They appeared a fitting sight that accurately mirrored Evoran's current state.
As a child, Evoran dreamed of leaving home and settling in Southland. The thought of venturing into lush jungles and chasing after exotic animals had always excited him. As a young adult, however, he had learned to cope with his place in the world and his place was A'Menth Tara. He abandoned his dreams to settle for a cruel, harsh reality.
As Evoran gazed into the southern skies he found himself thankful that he was not enduring the brute forces of the storms that loomed over their neighbors.
"Though," he thought, "I would trade a cursed winter for Athyus' return in an instant if afforded the opportunity."
May, the milk cow Evoran and Athyus bought only one year past, stood waiting in anxious expectation when Evoran entered the stables. Athyus was the one to milk her every morning and since he was no longer around to perform that chore, Evoran had to postpone it temporarily for the sake of other things. The short delay proved to be nearly more than the poor animal could bear. Evoran suspected she might burst, if her cries and inability to stand steady were any indication.
When the milk bucket had been filled he wiped his hands on his jumper, which also had seen better days. It was torn at the waist and at both knees as well. He longed for a new one, but could not afford the asking price the traders so selfishly demanded.
Evoran was returning to his home, milk in hand, when an obnoxious cooing ripped his attention upward toward the rafters. There he spotted a white dove.
Doves had always been symbols of freedom in the Great Kingdom-ironic considering their imprisonment and slavery as carrier fowl. Evoran noticed a tiny scroll tied to the birds left leg. It was apparent to him that this dove had either lost its way or deliberately flew away from its intended destination. The people of A'Menth Tara were commoners, with the exception of Sir Willhor Serpth, and did not receive messages from the neighboring nobles. Such things were simple facts of life.
By the time Evoran had managed to capture the frightened dove he easily could have milked May for an additional pale of milk. His delayed return to the house prompted questions from his mother and younger brother, who had woken in his absence.
"What's that?" the boy asked in a half-coherent voice upon seeing the stark white dove cuddled peacefully in Evoran's right hand.
"I found him in the stables." Evoran turned to his mother after he had set the milk on the floor. Londa, still red-eyed and weak from a sleepless night, walked over to her son to better investigate the creature. Her expression turned curious as she stepped closer.
"A dove, indeed," she confirmed. "And not just any dove. A royal carrier dove. What do you suppose he's doing here?" she posed to no one in particular.
"He must be lost," Evoran said faintly. "He carries a message."
Londa stroked the bird's head gently and retrieved the tiny scroll from its leg. Its small, barely noticeable wax seal bore the insignia of Southland. Londa looked at it for a moment, then broke the seal and began to unroll the delicate parchment.
"What are you doing, Mother?" Londa stopped only to look at Evoran, who seemed shocked by her actions. "You've broken a royal seal. The king would have your head for treason! You know common people are not to meddle in the affairs of the nobles." Evoran's sudden panic drove Danel to step closer.
"Be still, my son. If this is an important message, it should reach its rightful place. How will we know where this dove should be taken if we do not read the parchment?"
Evoran did not look convinced nor did he appear taken by the idea of delivering a dove to anyone, royal or otherwise. He wanted no part in stately messages and noble responsibilities. He wanted Athyus. Nothing more.
Londa continued. "We shall read the parchment. If it is of no importance, then we will burn the message and set the dove free. If there is dire need of something, however, we shall do the right thing and find a means of delivering the dove to its proper destination."
"How?" Danel asked genuinely. "How do we decide what is important?"
"How will we keep our heads?" Evoran added.
"Common sense will discern importance, Danel, and secrecy will keep our heads." Londa looked from her sons to the tender parchment stretched taught between her hands and breathed heavily before reading the contents.
9.28.021 Council, Wolves of the Great Fissure have come to Southland. They cross our walls and abduct without discrimination. The ice storm prevents travel and we cannot bide. We will suffer defeat this night. Send no one to Southland. Alert the King: the Silver Seat has fallen.