Date: Sat, 11 Aug 2012 02:48:27 -0400
From: Alek Wise <alekwise84 (at) gmail (dot) com>
Subject: Of Bones and Blood Chapter 2

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.