Читать книгу Wind - Daniel Mello - Страница 5

At the northern most edge of Hyrendell Island, upon a mountainous plateau that looked as if eons of erosion had cast and carved the crest of a hill into an earthen throne, Hyrendell Castle was built from the foundation of the Earth itself. Commissioned approximately 500 years after the island was discovered, it has been fortified and renovated with every succeeding ruler since. Ageless Earthstone was excavated from a quarry near the Eastern rim of the island to construct its timeless walls, and it has been reinforced over the ages with new stone and wrought iron bracing. And to accommodate the growing majesty of the castle’s inhabitants, new rooms and turrets have been built up and over its ever-increasing floor plan.

At the forefront of the castle, the gatehouse carries a cross-hatched portcullis with tempered spikes sharp enough to pierce an anvil, and serves as the entrance to the outer and inner baileys. From there, expanding outward in a jagged circle of Earthstone and iron, the towering curtain walls grew to outline the castle grounds. The grand scale and evolving architecture of Hyrendell Castle was second to nothing else on the Island.

Growing in the shadows around the castle’s massive footprint is Hyrendell Village. Soon after the original stronghold had finished construction, a protective parapet wall was built around a large section of the castle’s adjoining, southern-facing acreage. This would provide a barrier within which the commoners would live and work, develop and thrive, to sustain the kingdom.

In the earliest years of Hyrendell’s lifetime, the people were ruled and protected by many noble and virtuous kings, all descendent from an ancient lineage of knights. The kingdom existed in a dream of prosperity, blossoming into a center of commerce for the castle and its village, eventually expanding outward to sporadic merchant posts on the outlying edges of the Island. Travelers from afar would traverse the Ardelantian Ocean until they reached the waters directly surrounding Hyrendell Island. Known as the Sea of Gennia, sealads and merchants alike would dock at one of four merchant outposts on the Island to trade and purchase goods. Yet, even with Hyrendell’s magnificence, nothing could stop the progression of time, and the seemingly endless age of prosperity concluded.

Invaders from distant lands lay siege to the castle when they heard about the Island’s success. While many kings squashed the invaders’ offensive quite efficiently, it was from the inside where most of the damage would stem. Approximately 1700 years after Hyrendell was established, greed and corruption took hold.

Nobility lost to the lust for power when one of the greatest kings of history was murdered in the night. Rumors spread that the assassination was ordered by the king’s mendacious Privy Consul, yet no evidence ever surfaced to prove it. And as the king had no known heir, the Consul voted the reigning Lord High Steward to the throne, marking the beginning of a monarchical tyranny for a land whose brightest days had vanished like a thief in the night.

Thus, time and envy has caused the once prosperous and enchanting kingdom of Hyrendell to descend into a nightmare of domination and oppression. Now, the solid contours of the cold granite throne gave no discernable comfort to the man who sat unwillingly within. As such, Nielius Evacus, the current king of a corrupted Hyrendell, played his role as the leader of Men until a moment would surface where he could escape his pitiful existence.

His aged, battle-worn fingers wrapped over the armrests of the throne in an effort to support his aching figure as he attempted to make himself appear to belong there. His sapphire eyes gazed out over the Main Hall as his clean shaven, but hardened features portrayed quite well his annoyance at protocol. In his mind, Nielius was yearning for the sanctuary of his study; to flee from the wretched, joyful company of his Privy Consul and soldiers as they supped inside the Hall to the only place that dulled the unbearable silence of his thoughts. He hardly responded to his men’s efforts to spark up conversation, and he absently waved off another round of casket ale.

Although the highest position in Hyrendell’s hierarchy was secured for him by his lineage, Nielius had reluctantly grown to the aesthetic obligations of kingship; he was well aware that his presence was mandated at such events. Yet the continual compulsory appearances had long been grating his nerves. He believed that a king should not need an excuse to depart from his company. His Consul’s insistence that such appearances were necessary for the continued morale of the people was legitimate, though, regardless of the his own confidence in pervasive tyranny. Perhaps, if he was successful at feinting fatigue, he could create an illusion suitable enough for him to slip away from the commotion and chatter. He balled up a fist to rest a temple against it, and closed his eyes with an audible sigh.

The heated conversation around him seemed to grow stronger, or maybe it was just him focusing on the drunken banter of the soldiers, but his rouse must have been working. Within minutes, the men stopped coming to him with questions and stories, leaving him to further enjoy his façade. He took a deep breath, making sure to snort, and relaxed into his stone chair. Suddenly, springing forth from the back of his mind was a most urgent thought that had almost slipped from him completely. It was of an order he had given his High Steward Lotharius Fortis before the afternoon was finished, an order that required his attention in a place as private as his study. In an instant, the king’s eyes flashed open and he jumped from his throne.

“Your Highness, may I ask where you’re go…” one of the king’s Councilors began, but he was interrupted quickly.

“When Lotharius returns, tell him to meet me in my study,” the king commanded. Without waiting for an answer, he stomped off along the hall dais to a stairwell and swiftly ascended.

Slamming the solid oak chamber door behind him, the king paced across the quiet confines of his personal study until he reached a small curved balcony, and leaned against its parapet to suck in the night air. The evening was mildly cloudy, but the distance was clear, allowing his eyes to trace the jagged coastline of his island until it disappeared into the atmosphere. Looking westward, out upon the iron sea, toward the incalculable stars alight in the night sky, the king of Hyrendell waited.

Behind him, from the steely depths of the darkest shadows that haunted his sanctuary, the voice he craved and dreaded came like the inevitable death of a thousand lifetimes. Simultaneously baritone and falsetto, commanding and deceivingly compassionate, serrated and unimaginably silky, it spoke in horrendously perfect rhythms to the monarch of the kingdom.

“EveRythIng iS peRfeCt,” it soothed. “YOu nEEdn’T FeaR fOr yOuR LiFe.”

Then it vanished, leaving King Nielius to clutch at his chest.

As it did every time he heard that voice, the same terrified shiver rocked the king’s spine and stroked his skin with prickles, all while warming his heart and calming his mind. The confusion between terror and tranquility that jostled the king’s psyche brought the same comfort to him as being fought over by two gorgeous maidens, like being in the middle of a battle that essentially confirms your existence. And this was the only peace he could find.

The king closed his eyes and nodded silently in agreement. “Yes,” he said, “Everything will be fine.” But his words only bounced off the lifeless stone walls of his sanctuary.

Within the space of a few breaths, the chamber door creaked open to reveal the king’s High Steward Lotharius, followed by two guards who where holding a pile of rags the size of a person between them. A rare smile split the king’s lips as he motioned the guards to release the being. At once, it dropped to a heap of fabric onto the stone floor and began to pulse with slow, sharp breaths.

“She came unwillingly, Highness,” Lotharius reported in his usual abrasive utter, “but she is intact, I assure you.” He strode over to an ancient armchair and plopped into it, grabbing a handful of grapes from a nearby basket.

The king took in his Steward’s words as he paced in a slow semi-circle around the ragged prisoner. Quickly, he glanced up at the guards.

“Leave us,” he commanded in a breath. Without any hesitation, the guards vanished through the oak door, shutting it securely behind them.

The king continued to pace around the prisoner, staring down into the tainted, discolored clothing of his intrigue, quietly formulating the proper questions within his mind. Meanwhile, Lotharius sat comfortably quiet in the armchair, chewing his fruit, his eyes darting between his king and the prisoner. And the heap of rags that lay crouched upon the stone floor, breathing with audible difficulty, began to move. Wrinkled, crooked fingers emerged from some indiscernible opening in the clothing and pressed against the stone, slowly rolling up into an arched kneel. The hands came to rest upon unseen thighs, and the breathing became more controlled. The head of the prisoner, shrouded inside a huge hood, shifted toward the armchair for a moment, then back toward the king’s feet and started to convulse slightly as it released a cackling laughter.

The king met Lotharious’ concerned gaze at once, then snapped back toward the prisoner with a lung full of rage to spew. But his breath caught in his throat as the pile of rags spoke first.

“I know why I’m here, Nielius,” the prisoner croaked, “you can save your breath.”

The king raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, “then speak what I desire, Oracle. The sooner you tell me what you see, the sooner you’ll be returned to that shack you call a home.”

Underneath her ragged hood, the Oracle of Meaden smiled. “You will never return me to my home, Nielius,” she spoke. Slowly, she raised her hands to throw back her hood, revealing her balding head.

Looking up to stare into the king’s furious eyes, she continued, “your troubled life, your entire heritage has led up to these final times, and you are going to lead the kingdom toward its destiny.” Her eyes bore into the kings pupils, burning with satisfaction at his rage; this rage, she knew, was his fear manifest and it hovered inside the emptiness of his soul.

“These vague prophecies you speak annoy me, witch,” the king spat. “Clarify your speech, or I will eliminate it all together.”

“And if you eliminate my voice, than you will betray the entire reason you had me kidnapped, Nielius,” the Oracle snapped. As she pulled her eyes from the king’s gaze, she noticed a hint of comprehension in his brow. Pulling in air from the crisp night sky, she took a slow breath, centered her mind, and allowed the entire Universe to vibrate through her. The king and his Steward watched her meditation closely, for this was the reason why she was stolen during the night.

Instantly, the Oracle’s eyelids snapped open to reveal her trance white eyes. Her chest rose and fell with the tide of her breath, and her throat quivered with an ethereal voice.

“The Legend who once was will be again,” she croaked., “the age of this kingdom has concluded and the judgment of all the Heavens will deliver the land from the Evil One.”

The king of Hyrendell stood rooted to the stone floor, his Steward perched on the edge of the armchair, both pairs of eyes shaking with fear and curiosity as they gazed at the trembling witch.

She continued, “a new age of peace and cooperation will begin, and the kingdom will be ruled by light once more.”

The king could restrain his inquisition no longer. “Will I be the one to deliver the land from evil!?” he barked, his face shaking with avarice, his pupils glaring with fury.

The Oracle closed her eyes and calmed her breath. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes, you will.” And with that, the room swirled around her as she fell into the night, and her body dropped to the cold stone floor unconscious.

The king and his Steward watched the witch fall, but stayed where they were, entranced with the prophecy. Both of their minds raced with every conceivable option of how to elevate the kingdom to peace; flashing between the disobedience of the people and the goal of total unity. The king thought that his laws were strict enough to force the kingdom into one way of life, but he would have to tighten his grip if he was to solidify cooperation.

The High Steward probed his memory for anything that resembled a legend of the kingdom, passing over the ancient artifacts in the castle’s museum to the history of Hyrendell itself. A fog of a remembrance brewed in his mind: a series of moments where he learned of an ancient prince that saved his people from a brutal attack, and in his kingship ruled the land with justice and mercy. He remembered commenting that the people of the time must’ve been foolish to think that peace could be established through mercy. Mercy denoted weakness, and a weak king could never rule Hyrendell.

But Lotharius remembered hearing the scholars of Hyrendell’s Monastery saying that the people of that time were so grateful for being saved that they commissioned the land’s greatest blacksmiths to create a magnificent sword worthy to be wielded by their king. It would eventually be named The Legend of Ages. To his knowledge, the sword was legendary because it only existed in fables; it hadn’t been seen in a thousand years. How could a mythical sword arise? It would need its master to wield it, yet how can an ancient, rotted corpse of a king return to the land? And if he did, by some hideous sorcery, could he defeat King Nielius’ army to triumph?

King Nielius must’ve been concluding the same thought because both men quickly snapped their gaze to stare at each other.

“I think it is about time we learn more of our ancestors,” the king decided. “Put the witch into a holding cell, and have her monitored and nourished. I need her alive.”

“Yes, Lord,” the Steward obeyed, and hurried to the door to snatch the guards. He relayed the king’s command, and they carried the oracle’s unconscious body to the depths of the castle.

Without a word, the king and his Steward hurried to the castle’s library and began to research all of the kings in Hyrendell history. Hours passed, fading into the night as the stars turned overhead. With the help of an exhausted librarian, King Nielius and the High Steward Lotharius scrutinized the archaic writings of scholars long passed, searching for anything that spoke of a legendary king. They studied all of the known history of the land, from its discovery in 3371BC to the current age, focusing on any significant, decisive battles and any superstitious myths that arose from the people.

Sometime around the break of dawn, an excited “ah hah!” broke the grave silence. The Librarian jerked in his sleep, and King Nielius looked up as Lotharius hurried over carrying a rather fragile manuscript.

“Here, Lord. Apparently in 254AD, during the Battle of the Heavens, someone named ‘The Legend’ arose to power, governing the land with an ‘even hand’, so it says. It looks like he ruled for almost twenty years over Hyrendell as it ‘prospered like never before’,” Lotharius quoted.

The king’s eyes blazed across the frail pages, scanning them for any hint of who this king was. “273AD…Legend…murdered…” Nielius immediately stopped and re-read the last paragraph. It was written in old bardic script:

The Legend’s rule ended with an intense sword fight inside his personal chambers, where secret assassins murdered him in the night . Although an extensive search was initiated among all of Hyrendell, the killers were never found . The following day, King Eaodan McCloud was buried among his clan, as per his request . Not even in death did he wish to leave those whom he loved...

“McCloud,” King Nielius breathed, “why didn’t I connect it before…?”

“You mean old Eaodan was the fabled legendary king?” Lotharius chuckled. Then quite suddenly, he burst into a raucous laughter. “No... Way…,” he spat in between breaths. It wasn’t some mythic sword. How could he be so stupid! The king, however, sat back in his chair, pondering over the distant lineage.

When Lotharius was calm enough to speak clearly, he continued, “sure, the kingdom was prosperous during his era, but prosperity does not make one great, and certainly not legendary! After all, how could he return? Eaodan never had any children!” He stood up from leaning against the table to pace around, stretching his tired legs.

“You know the story of my heritage,” the king began, “after Eaodan’s death, his Lord High Steward Gregorius Evacus was voted into the kingship by the Privy Consol, though I’m sure the Steward’s Consulates were compensated for their suffrage, if you see my point. Afterward, having bore no children, Eaodan’s Queen Seraphina was banished to Hyrendell Village, and she was never heard from again.” He crept up from his chair and paced toward the nearest window to look out upon the dawning sky.

“I don’t quite follow, my Lord,” Lotharius admitted as he stepped to Nielius’ side. A brief smile of sympathy toward the Steward’s ignorance passed over the king’s face.

“Don’t you think it’s curious that the surname of McCloud is still in use to this day, yet the Evacus Clan has ruled the throne for over a millennia?”

Lotharius thought about this simple fact for a moment. “Well, I’ve never really paid it any mind, my Lord. Once the noble Evacus’ were crowned, why would it matter if the McCloud’s lived on?”

“That’s my point,” Nielius countered. “I’m sure my ancestors felt the same way. The throne was secured for their lineage, why would it matter if a McCloud lived in Hyrendell or not? This, my brave, yet dense Steward, would seem to be their own undoing.”

Once again, a glazed expression froze Lotharius’ face. Nielius merely sighed.

“Try to follow me on this one, okay,” the king asked. “My ancestors, having won the kingship over Hyrendell, had nothing to worry about. The McCloud’s could never reach the throne again. Therefore, they must’ve ignored any entry into the kingdom’s Registry under the surname McCloud, meaning anyone could use it. Do you see now?”

Startling comprehension dawned on Lotharius’ face, “either someone in the past had decided to adopt that name, or the banished Queen actually had children.”

“Yes,” Nielius exhaled.

“But, Sire, when the Queen was ordered to leave the castle, she was not with child. If she was, the unborn would’ve been crowned in-utero, or otherwise murdered like its father.”

“Or she just wasn’t showing,” Nielius added. He turned to pace around the library. “Banished and forgotten, left to live like peasants, the McCloud clan disappeared into Hyrendell history until one day, when a prophecy would be told that would mark the return of the McCloud namesake to the throne. My ancestors unknowingly sealed their own fate.”

Lotharius stared in shock at his king. “They should’ve killed her when they had the chance. Surely there must be something we could do, my Lord.”

“I think there is,” Nielius replied, “the Oracle speaks only double-sided truths because the future is always uncertain. She said the Legend would return, but not how. What if Eaodan’s return meant the revelation of his derelict ancestry and the absolute termination of his bloodline? I could scour the Island for all McClouds and have them executed, all while reinforcing the kingdom’s laws to increase obedience. Not only would that fulfill the prophecy by bringing forth ‘the Legend’, but once the threat is eliminated, only I, an Evacus, would be left to deliver the land from evil!”

Lotharius finally understood. “Cleanse and protect. And I’ll order a few ships abroad on a diplomatic mission to decontaminate the outlying lands,” he smiled, apparently satisfied with his own brilliance.

The king grinned in approval, “now that, Lotharius, is why I pay you what I do.”

For a moment, King Nielius and his Steward Lotharius stood breathing in the crisp morning air, churning their pending conquest into various shapes inside their minds. Shortly after dawn, the Steward departed and the king made his way to his private chambers for a short rest, for he knew that the beginning of the end was now in motion.

* * *

Generous beams of sunlight streamed in through the open stained glass windows of the Consul Chamber as the five members of the king’s privy council sat in their respective chairs bantering to one another. Adding his rumbling laughter into the discussion, was the sixth member of the council, Lotharius. The king’s Steward had called a special session of the Consul, on the matter of a secret plot against the kingdom, and they were to discuss a plan of action against the conspirators. The meeting was planned to commence midday, and as the sun had past its highest point in the sky, the men sat and talked as they anxiously awaited for the arrival of the king of Hyrendell in order to commence.

Mriori, the youngest member of the Consul, pushed himself from his high-backed mahogany chair and paced across the chamber’s burgundy carpeting to a pitcher of fresh water that sat upon a great Earthstone desk near the back wall. After stepping up onto the small dais and pouring himself a glass, Mriori glanced through the colored windows at the sparkling sea. He sipped his water, thinking about how arrogant the ocean could be, before returning to his chair.

Amicus, the tallest of the council, dismissed himself from a conversation with Erinol, and caught the attention of Lotharius, who was sitting in one of the three chairs adjacent himself. With a glare of consternation contorting his creased face, he stared into the dark eyes of the king’s Steward for only a brief moment, in an attempt to boost his own confidence. Lotharius, however, met the councilman’s tenacious gaze with a superior glare of his own.

Quickly, as if to banish any notion of inferiority, Amicus broke up the Consul’s mumbling, “my Steward, what news of this plan against the kingdom do you have? Surely, the king will be with us in due time, but until then, can we not at least hear a portion of the dealings against us?”

“Yes, Lotharius,” spat Grachus, the plumpest of the Consul members. He stroked lightly his aged, wiry grey beard to sooth his bubbling impatience. “We’ve been sitting here for half the day already, and yet the council remains inactive. Tell us of what is so important, or I shall rid myself of this useless session and enjoy the finer things in life!” A crooked smile split his face, folding his russet eyes into slits as he thought about the maiden he’d woken up to that morning. But his fantasy was shattered when Lotharius jumped from his chair, knocking it backward.

“You’ll stay where your overstuffed posterior is planted!” Lotharius commanded. His eyes glistered with rage against Grachus’ fuming temper as he swiveled his head around to glare into the maddened eyes of all the Consul members. “And that goes for the rest of you as well. The king and I have learned of an important discovery against the kingdom, and you’ll do well to be patient, or I’ll have you all quartered as soon as you step outside the those doors,” he huffed, pointing to the giant oaken doors framing the entrance to the chamber.

And as Lotharius lowered his hand and relaxed his tightened back, those same chamber doors were shoved open to reveal the tired, petulant ruler of Hyrendell. Without hesitating, King Nielius marched to the dais and slid into the oak chair behind the chamber desk. After a few refreshing gulps of water, he took a moment to breath in the fresh air blowing in from the sea.

Once settled into his own chair, Lotharius watched his king brace himself against the stone desk. The man looked exhausted, and for the first time, Lotharius noticed the years chiseled into Nielius’ face. His age was catching up to him and he had yet to produce an heir. Perhaps he had a chance this morning to try with one of his maidens. Maybe that was the reason for his fatigue…

“The time for change has come,” the king proclaimed. Hands against the desk, he panned his eyes across the two rows of chairs inside the chamber, catching the stares of all six members. “Last night, Lotharius and I were told a prophecy about an ancient king who would return to claim Hyrendell. It was said that the Legend who once was will arise again.”

The Consul’s silence deadened the chamber. Nielius continued, “after thoroughly researching Hyrendell’s history, we’ve learned that the old king the prophecy speaks of is Eaodan McCloud from long ago, the one the people referred to as the Legend.”

Septus, the middle-aged economic advisor to the king, spoke first. “my Lord, how can a dead king return?”

“We’ve thought of this already, Septus, thank you,” Nielius snipped. “Now, since no known magick can bring back the dead, I’ve concluded that it must be his ancestral namesake that would revive his legacy. Someone from the McCloud clan will rise against the kingdom, rise against ME,” he yelled, his rage echoing around the stone walls, “to overthrow our way of life!” Suddenly, Nielius slammed his fists against the desk,.

The six members of the privy council pulled their gaze from his anger. They’d seen their king furious countless times before, but this time was different. This time, Nielius’ voice aired something mysterious, something they had never before heard that shaped the tone of his fury.

“I remember that name,” Mriori began, “I remember hearing about McCloud’s reign. The people loved him, the kingdom prospered. But, if I remember correctly, he never had any heir to the throne. Even his queen had died shortly after his demise without bearing any offspring. How, my king, could McCloud’s lineage be revived?”

“If you had bothered to glance at the kingdom’s registry every once in a while, you’d have seen that there are McCloud’s living within Hyrendell. The surname was revived decades after my ancestors had secured the crown. Unfortunately, those old fools had no idea that name would come back to haunt them.”

Erinol, the thin, pale genius of the Consul tried to comfort his king, “m… my Lord, this travesty will not prevail, of course. What do you have planned?”

Leaning against his desk, the king glanced toward his Steward; Lotharius nodded slightly, encouraging his Lord onward. “We find them all, and we kill them.”

Nielius glared at his Consul, waiting for their objections. However, none came. In fact, to his surprise, the five remaining members looked somewhat pleased with the idea.

“You wish to hunt down the entire McCloud bloodline and exterminate it?” Mriori asked with as subtle an inquisitiveness as he could muster. He thought it best not to disturb a raging king.

“Yes, I do,” Nielius calmly answered, “this is the Decree of Purification that I announce commencing hence forth: anyone pulsing with the blood of any McCloud ancestry will be considered a threat to the entire kingdom and eliminated at once. Age and gender are no exception to the decree, as anyone can be a threat. Along with direct descendants, indirect descendants will also be considered a threat and dealt with accordingly. Cooperatives of the conspiratorial McClouds are no exception as well. Death is to be administered by public execution, and all citizens of Hyrendell are commanded to attended. Anyone who fails to attend the executions will be considered in allegiance with the conspirators and will be dealt with accordingly.” The king glanced over the eyes of his privy council. “Any questions?”

Everyone held their breath as the words seeped into their thoughts. A kingdom-wide extermination of all traitors? No more conspirators against the crown? Erinol had just finished scribbling down the decree onto a roll of parchment when Amicus stood up and began to applaud. And within seconds, all of the Consul members stood to cheer for the magnificence of their ruler, the brilliance of their king.

“Enact the Decree at once!”