The Wrenogal Sonnets

ACT I

i

A broken brute, who healed, wrote history,

and all the great adventures of his time,

and how a humble man made misery

repentance that was worthy of a rhyme.

His name he never referenced for himself,

who knew that it would mar the tale he wrote,

but hung his shame high up upon a shelf

and nailed his name in reaches far remote.

Tho ‘twould appear in stories you will hear,

the author is not known to hear it now,

for many men are burdened by the fear

‘The Sword of Locrien’ could once endow.

So this balked, broken brute records the day

his heart was moved to walk another way:

ii

When Wrenogal, who sails the sinking ship,

embarked upon that failing southern sea

there was that nemesis who would soon clip

not only his, but all four feathers, free.

“I say, sea-frenzy has our captain cowed,

and not fit for his captaincy,” said he.

“His agued mind will not now be allowed

to lead us in this perilous south sea.”

So Zlyr stole all but few of that good crew

and went back to Lewellen’s harbory,

while they, the rest, still southward, empty, flew,

by daring and by doom upon the sea.

Yet not for naught was this fleet made to fly

when on the isle of Raksh they were to spy.

iii

‘twas Wrenogal and good Naerendal, too,

and Taladen, and Beyrg, and Melody,

who were the few of that inspired crew

that set foot on that isle in that fay sea.

But wiles of that wild hemisphere were wont

to break a band of many more than they,

and soon but two were left with all the daunt

that death delivers to the souls who stay.

Naerendal, faithful to the last and least,

could only do what fate would let him do,

and finally, at last, fell to the Beast

that only Wrenogal would soon subdue.

For seraphim would notice presently

that hero that was lost upon the sea.

iv

Thus so, alone, the promised to the throne,

lone Wrenogal sought shelter frantically,

and found a home within the crumbling stone

of some great castle that, great, used to be.

Within, an ancient people had retired

before some unknown, dire calamity.

And there were forges that had once been fired

to build bewitching arms and armory.

So, with said bounties of that wild isle,

young Wrenogal took sword and shield and spear,

and, raging, and in desperate denial,

called out that Beast, the dragon, to come near.

And with a crack of lightning, or of wing,

came, roaring, that fay dragon, answering.

v

The storm of Prydien in tandem poured

upon both dragon and young prince of none,

while crashed her lightning, and her thunder roared,

and blotted out the judgment of the sun.

But Wrenogal could no more match the hull

of that great Beast than water to a ship’s.

Its scales make dull his arms as like the full

coronal rays around a pale eclipse.

Shield cast from arm, sword sheathed into its chest,

spear pierced in side, leg broken in by its wrest,

then with one arc across a thund’rous sky,

the lightning bolt of Prydien swept by

and met the sword embedded in its heart

compelling it to die—and to re-start.

vi

So roared the dragon, and removed its wounds,

and threw them strewn to wash beneath the rain,

and looked to he who’d cast his two harpoons,

and thought it saw rebirth in he who’d slain.

And formed a canopy above his head,

but leaving room for rain to wash wounds out.

and stayed for days to guard him from the dead

who would have surely taken him without.

A splint and dragon to recover with

will make a long but sure recovery,

and sets a strong foundation for the myth

that dragons still are found in the south sea.

For when, eventually, the Wren returned,

there would be many myths for him to earn.

vii

They flew! they two, and bore the ship behind

by rope, in the dragon’s tail intertwined,

and to Lewellen’s shores they forward went,

but knew not what dark deeds had been recent.

For years had gone since Zlyr had early fled

the sailors he predicted would be dead,

and took his chance to sit within the courts—

fell contracts wrote, and made-up seaborne torts.

His forethought fortunate for him indeed,

his sowing reaped the measure of his greed,

and Zlyr the mutinous held a high place

in Wrenogal’s own childhood palace.

But of all this the Wren had heard no word,

while gliding on the wind as like a bird.

viii

They slept on the Sea Prowler in the night

(this was the name of theirs, the the sinking ship)

and took their tow again when it was bright,

their tenuous and tenured return trip.

And anchored in the deep Aeonian sea

when blessèd shore appeared far off at last,

trusting the Lord of Anonymity

to keep their only treasure anchored fast.

Deep night it was when Wrenogal arrived

alone to find the king’s chamber went he,

when Zlyr he met, who’d this meeting connived,

who’d planned for this eventuality—

who’d kept a constant vigil, on his own,

for when the Wren would e’er again come home:

ix

“Dear prince!” said he, “how, now, you come to us!

when, in the morning, is your father due

to tell of how so un-fortuitous

his line has been in waiting long for you!

But now his message shall be good indeed,

for you shall come before it will be said,

and not an ended line shall be decreed

but one blest by the Seraphim instead!

I say, enter upon the palace yard

a moment after dawn, and you shall be

applauded by the court and by the guard

when their lost and beloved son they see!

Forgive me, friend, for how I favored thee

upon an old and bitter southern sea.”

x

Zlyr now awaited a response to this,

his head hung in mock penitence before

the very lord he’d left for the abyss

of an unseen and unknown foreign shore.

The first man Wrenogal had seen thus far!

First since the good and fair Naerendal fell.

Such solitude can pry the heart ajar,

and bid men to bid fair-won ire farewell.

“Dear friend, prepare my father for the morn.

I long to meet him, but I trust your way.

Better to be by dawn’s light newly born.

I’ll go now, and I’ll see you in the day.”

His ploy now set, its cascade thus began,

now keen-eyed Zlyr employed his peerless plan:

xi

My king, Zlyr mused, the Wren now on his way,

and in the quiet midnight’s guarantee,

what was it that you were so soon to say?

What was it that tomorrow you’d decree?

That ‘rule no more will be Lewellen’s way.

I lay my crown into the sea, that took

my son away; and there the crown shall stay,

where lone Aeonia alone can look.’

Zlyr slunk, now, silently, behind a door

that creaked not e’en a peep to disturb sleep,

and stole upon a carpeted room floor

to stand above his king, in dreams sunk deep.

Your crown is not the sea’s! His gambit made,

Zlyr sealed his cunning with his faithless blade.

xii

The morrow was as bright as they’d both prayed.

Both native starved and glutted rogue had wished

for something nearly picturesque as this

to seal the day they’d grasp what they’d assayed.

Fierce gleaming Tolno left no bit of shade,

save in the heart of he whose shadows wist

beside the heart he had deftly dismissed,

elsewhere besides, no cunning was purveyed.

So Wrenogal rode in upon the spoil

to which his voyage clung: the very steed

that rendered both reward and trick for toil,

that e’en Zlyr could not guess in all his greed.

The beat of dragon wings would halfway foil

the soil where the rogue had set a seed.

xiii

The courtyard swelled with courtiers and tells,

each listened to the news that morning held;

for Zlyr had rung the castle’s signal bells

before Tolno had, Twilight, fully felled:

“I saw, but hours ago, our king disposed

by one whose hands were already bloodstained.

He will be here again, vainly disposed

to take his place—in purest spirits feigned.

Fear not! I will not hearken to his lies!”

And now the dragon’s wing-beats rent the air,

as he of whom Zlyr spoke besmirched the skies

making the lie not lesser, but more fair.

So ushered in this age’s sundering:

“’tis Wrenogal! ’tis he that killed the king!”

xiv

The Wren descended on that sour scene

into the snake nest’s fangs: ablaze with ire,

into the home he’d loved, and had not seen

since when Zlyr was his friend, and not a liar.

And in a vision did his vision go,

and on the balcony above the yard

he saw four loved ones there, and not a foe:

Naerendal, Taladen, and Beyrg the bard,

and Melody before them spoke his name,

but in Zlyr’s voice his cousin’s outcry came:

“arm every bow and all the ballistae!

Do not allow this viper to go free!”

The vision melted, as did every sound,

as every soldier fired his every round.

xv

At this time, I admit, I have forgot

to tell you of some characters you’ve seen.

Of Taladen’s fond friendship you know not,

and of the others by him, scarce a thing.

It could suffice to say that they were friends,

but that would leave you lacking many coats;

so, since I know how Wrenogal’s fate ends,

I can spare a few pages for some notes.

Do not forget: I am a brutish man,

and very much enjoy more brackish jokes.

So I will fill some gaps now, if I can;

reveal some collars, and remove some cloaks.

These are the four who chose to stay that day

when Zlyr, his loves and virtues, would betray.

xvi

Naerendal was appointed by the king

to watch his son and sister’s children o’er

their voyage, o’er their seaway wandering,

while wondering the heavy hearts they bore.

For a great war had ended recently,

and many ills had lingered since its close,

not least the bitter death they had to see

of their queen, and his love, by remnant foes.

Naerendal’s task it was to be their guide,

in waterways and ways more sage and wise.

He was good at it, too. The Wren would chide

me with the same words, echoed in reprise.

Figures he lasted longest. But a shame

he was not there when the reunion came.

xvii

The bard called Beyrg, the jester of the hall

where Wrenogal was born, whose yellow cap

assuaged the sorry states of each and all

the courtiers across the lordly map,

could cheer both angered and the most depressed.

His eyes knew grief, but were not so possessed.

And when so bright and colorfully dressed,

it was not difficult to be impressed.

I hear his death was maybe worst of all.

For even dismal odds die at the laugh

of one like him; and how he loved to call

a tragedy naught–cutting it in half.

The beasts that took him knew no laughter so.

And gone are all the jokes he used to know.

xviii

Zlyr had two cousins in Lewellen’s court:

the Wren of Lewellen, our story’s mark,

of whom we bear this tale’s epic report,

and Melody, whose words he used to hark.

Her eyes were soft and knowing, more than they

should have been, being young, able to be.

And just as kind and loving was her way

with words, to all those soft eyes e’er would see.

And boon she was to both her cousins hearts,

until her choices parted her from both.

Zlyr told her to return to better parts,

but Melody again refused his troth.

She would not rest her arm upon Zlyr’s right–

she would not see another palace night.

xix

Beloved Taladen, dear friends with both

the prince as well as Zlyr, his counselor,

chose fatefully the day he took the oath

to follow Wrenogal where’er he were.

For Zlyr loved Taladen as much as he

had ever cared for his dear Melody.

How terrible it was for him to see

that Taladen, too, would stay on that sea.

Perhaps that was the straw that broke the back

of the dear, noble champion he’d been–

the Red Hawk felt for the first time the lack

of those he’d thought his charm could always win.

But Taladen loved dear that traitor, too.

How much he longed their friendship to renew.

xx

Ere I return to all the woes that be,

I must impart one more loaded detail:

before the Prowler set off for the sea,

the king gave gifts to two who would soon sail.

You know the two. The captain and first mate--

the two whose enmity from now on grew--

tho now their brotherhood could quick abate

the hostile feelings that their futures knew.

“I have here two weapons to introduce,

two tools with which you must be very wise:

they are the truebolts—bolts you mustn’t loose

unless at need—for their mark always dies.

Defend my son with yours, dear Zlyr,” said he.

“Defend him from the southern sea for me.”

xxi

Recall that Prydien had saved the Wren

when broken ‘neath the dragon he now rode.

Recall the storm that besmirched Tolno then,

and see that no storm now had been bestowed.

But Prydien did not alone attend

the figure we have closely stalked thus far.

Lydoria and flaming Locrien

were watching, too, each struggle and each spar.

And now the Queen of Song could fitly spare

a feather for the one whose song had not

yet had its chance to pierce her day-dawn air,

but of whom, she knew, epics would be wrought.

So, with a wing, unseen by any eye,

she swept both dream and deadly volley by.

xxii

It was the only chance the Wren would get.

Reptile instinct was quicker than his own–

the dragon knew a hostile action yet,

and wild reactive flight was still well known.

Zlyr cursed the Wind (and knew not what it meant)

and pulled his crossbow from beneath his coat,

and said, beneath his breath, “I’ll have you rent

if I must send this truebolt through your throat!”

But Locrien, who stood on, whispered, “wait:

you do not want to waste that bolt of yours.

Perhaps you hit the dragon, and its fate

usurps the one for whom your anger pours.”

A moment’s hesitation was enough

to save the Wren–though, this, Zlyr would soon slough.

xxiii

The feather that Lydoria had loosed,

in concert with her celestial gale,

now struck the Wren’s own heart and introduced

the same change as had the dragon’s own tale.

So, hapless, pitiful Wrenogal died,

replaced by one by gods and instinct born;

and, flint-browed, gripped his reins, to skyward ride

not on his past, but on a new wind borne.

A shout of fire, a sword raised overhead,

the moments bought by angels he employed,

and turned and used the fear, the flow’ring dread,

that Zlyr had carved and craftily enjoyed.

Away! To all and nowhere he was set!

To gain and lose more than he had as yet!

ACT II

i

I spoke to one who’d watched that very scene,

when Wrenogal invoked dread, undeserved,

in every heart that saw him; and, unseen,

the flametouched seraph Locrien observed.

The Wren, again, knew not what had been done

to aid him on that victorious flight;

but I shall tell you--for the very one

I’ve mentioned told it to me that same night:

‘The dark one on the dragon raised his sword,

and shouted as if fire was his thrall,

for every inch of his blinding blade roared

with flames that answered his inciting call.’

But when I’ve asked the Wren of this detail,

No fact or fiction from it can prevail.

ii

They flew back to the Prowler, which stayed fast

‘neath Aeonia’s absent, watchful eye;

and they thought quickly–for what was now past

would follow them if they stayed in the sky.

On the Northeastern shore, there is a cove

bestrangled by sharp mountains in its sea.

No ship had ever moored there–all who drove

nearby were dashed and, from their oars, ripped free.

But this one might be different, thought he

who’d towed his ship behind a dragon’s wake.

The fell teeth of that cove may disagree

with sailors, but, for dragons, jaws forsake.

Thus, tied again to the ship underneath,

the Wren made for the cruel Cove of Fell Teeth.

iii

At last when overcast the sky had drawn,

and threatened storm again at any time,

the confidence of Wrenogal was gone,

replaced by something sickly and sublime.

Sublime, for even living it can’t hide

the way such stakes as his were mythical;

and sickly, for, beneath a smock of pride,

he knew his state was deeply pitiful.

What could a safe cove do, even if there

he could retreat, reborn as a recluse?

How sour forever would taste the air–

how tight the light would wrap him like a noose.

But now the cove was on his horizon

and his next hurdle set to overcome.

iv

Now Locrien looked on from on a crag

that towered over that northeastern sea,

that was the fell usurper, and the snag

of many ships that, great ships, used to be.

For Wrenogal, approaching, he would not

give leeway o’er his vicious, rocky brink.

It now was time to see if he who’d sought

escape had earned his aid, or if he’d sink.

Yet unseen was the seraph on his peak

by Wrenogal, who eyed the sea below,

who must not err, who must alone now seek

a path that no-one else as yet could know

through Locrien’s cove. Wren and dragon wend

through what was every other good ship’s end.

v

That mix: divine and mortal, scale and skin,

engaged the two again, and now the wings

of nature gained the virtues of a sin,

and godspring gained earth’s pure underpinnings.

The dragon pitched and whorled along the string

that held him to the helpless ship below,

and held the eldritch fluxed understanding

that only beasts controlled by man can know.

The Wren bore, too, the knowledge of the beast,

and leaned betimes into it, trusting more

the one who knew the currents more, not least,

who knew well how to reach a distant shore.

For this last mile was the longest yet,

both knew that which they must not now forget.

vi

Between each pass, and through each needle’s eye,

the unit towed the hurtling ship by,

betwixt rocks, searching, scraping, screaming by,

about and turned about more than the eye

could follow fully, thus it soared along

far farther than good reason could have guessed;

but one wry move would prove the ship’s hope wrong,

and add her hull to Locrien’s ship nest.

One turn more, when the Wren reflexed his gaze

from task to shore for but a moment’s daze,

was when the rope guiding the Prowler grazed

the peak of Locrien, whose sharp rocks razed.

Untethered kite—the Wren and his mount flew,

while, for the ship, there was naught left to do.

vii

She had enough momentum thus to reach

the shore—though not without the weight of care

the Wren would learn upon that sorry beach:

one last stone by the shore laid her side bare.

And as she came to rest, the waves rest too

within her belly—cracked and caving in.

Her sails still waving, high, and full, and true,

her lower decks left to the ocean’s din.

Seaweeds already pushed into her space,

then mussels, and the mosses of the sea

would creep upon her seaspray-laden face,

until fully claimed as the sea’s debris.

So for some days the Wren would naught but stare

into the world that he had lost in there.

viii

And while he watched the monotonous waves

take, one by one, the Sea Prowler’s contents,

his heart-worn, ghasted eyes gave heartless graves

to buried pasts which knew no sacraments.

As if the seraph, watching from above,

commanded each to flow beside his gaze,

the crates and cargoes that were borne thereof

demanded of the Wren his hate or praise.

Each drew unto where Wrenogal was stood

within the churning waters of his fate,

as if to ask (as if the dread man could),

make good our voyage, and our value sate.

Surely the shipment of that yearslong crew

of false and dead held something live and true?

ix

First drew unto that near dead-hearted one

the quill of Taladen. And parchment sogged

beside it lost its ink, already run

into the sea, now fully waterlogged.

The poetry those lines once held now ran

throughout the racing mind of he who saw.

What could he now remember? How began

the epics that had lent their humble awe?

But gone. A few words here and there he might

recall, but never half the voice of he

who rarely ventured into broad daylight

unless the Wren or Zlyr he wished to see.

The quill will see the sea. And nevermore

will friends, its poems, pardon or ignore.

x

But Beyrg had loved his writing. He had kept

Taladen’s verses always on his lips.

Dear Taladen had often softly wept

alone when Beyrg had used his lines in scripts.

He knew well how to love. No man was not

within the reach of Beyrg’s beloved heart.

And love was not a prayer or passing thought,

but had, in all his plays, a hero’s part.

His yellow jester’s cap drifted beside

the fingertips the seaswell softly kissed.

That cap, so well to happier times tied,

would have to be forsaken, and be missed.

For Wrenogal could not now laugh with it.

And ‘trying to’ he’d not, himself, permit.

xi

A satchel now approached, which slowly spun

around, giving its contents every way,

dispersing little bundles, “made for none

and everyone”, as Melody would say.

A biscuit and an ornament they held,

an offering for any who would take,

for those who ever had been sore repelled,

and those who were the ones who could forsake.

Melody made the gifts, and gave them out

to outskirt villages, beyond the sight

of palaces, beyond the chasing shout

of fearful courtier and noble knight.

She did not fear. She gave. And now the sea

ate what the Wren’s tear-blurred eyes could not see.

xii

Naerendal owned a book he often shared

with Wrenogal, about Aeonia,

of how the Silent Seraph truly cared,

more, even, than that fae Lydoria.

Back then, the Wren had listened with an ear

that trusted much, which had no reason not

to trust the thought that angels might be near,

and had all living things witnessed, and wrought.

But now, seeing its spine bob closer, flew

across the churning shallows, scrabbling

their surface—in that book, Wrenogal knew

his plight would be there, and gods answering!

And, tense hands turning open its wet face,

he saw the sea had taken the ink’s trace.

xiii

One version of the Wren now threw the book

into the sea, that had, now, all things seized

away from heart and hand, and now partook

within its hungry depths all that once pleased.

Another version screamed into the air,

at all the light he ever had seen there,

and begged for Darkness to remove him hence,

and—better yet—his heart from all its sense.

But this one stared into the once loved book,

whose words the Seraph of the Sea now seized,

and perilously on his thoughts partook—

of memories that bleed—that once had eased.

And would have done until the Dark encroached,

when something he’d forgotten now approached.

xiv

Bumped right into his leg, Wrenogal’s lute

entreated him. A pet that wants to play.

But oceans of despair now numbly root

the paralyzed to where his bare life lay.

Almost naive. Almost—except—the bard

had taught him how to play. And Taladen

had hoped one day to have his verses barred

in music’s measures. And—had not the Wren

once heard that Melody had wished that, in

her offerings, she might, too, cheer the ear

with song? And what was it—that ancient hymn

Naerendal sang to conquer every fear?

His voice—barely his own: “then I will learn

the songs they might have sung. And then adjourn.”

“and I will sing the songs they taught to me,

and tell them to the sea. The Southern Sea.”

xv

Away! I bring you to another place,

tho don’t forget what you have just now seen!

What you now know is the start of the race,

the truest that the Wren has ever been.

But now we go to Dustan, where no man

could ever guess what new veins would emerge.

For who’d invest in drab, dusty Dustan

with wealth like that of Acles on the verge?

Wyveria would. Latest of a line

of merchants—though her angle was quite wry—

her circles may have been both high and fine,

but her business was for the hard done by.

And though she knew it not, Dustan was ripe

for the hard done by of more than one type.

xvi

Wyveria had heard of Dustan’s plight:

it was too far away for trade, compared

with quarries that were in the line of sight

of capitals where those with money fared.

But where fare those with money fare fair homes

that never suit the laborer. And though

the goods will follow where the money roams,

its gatherers only in dread dreams go.

So Wyveria, with her razored eye,

sent Durn to mark the marketplace, and hear

what were the common rumors running by

the sellers and the tradesmen in that sphere.

And Durn employed to wealth his practiced smarm,

and for the rest, a canny, keen eyed charm.

xvii

The most brutish of all men (save of me)

was wandering the mountains at this time.

He searched in every cave and crag to see

if any untapped veins were in that clime.

For Nolda was a miner, and the talk

of Dustan was that mines were set to move.

To mountains north of Dunwich they should flock,

for better ores and prospects they should prove.

But this brute was a man of little means

(far less resourceful than I would have been—

and wiser, too, than me). His frontier scenes

he trusted more than some big city’s ken.

He’d heard, if there was any metal here,

that Durn could buy—but—now what did he hear?

xviii

A voice rang through the empty mountains, near

where that secluded cove hid in the peaks,

where none were ever wont to go, for fear

of Locrien, who, vulnerable souls seeks.

The miner pressed his back behind a stone,

to peer down to the sound that was untouched,

and saw a solitary figure prone—

beside his belly lay a lute he clutched.

And dark became the eyes of Nolda then,

for many days ere he went on his search,

he’d seen the gravely posted bulletin

on every meetinghouse, and every church:

“The regicidal Wrenogal is loose!

Be watchful, and report him to the noose!”

xix:

The First Song of Wrenogal

“You once could fool me with visions of thee

riding the wings of the Seraph, free…

Now I see neither the missionary,

nor his companion who hideth me…”

Now Nolda listened to the song he heard,

confused that such a knave would take the time

to make or memorize a lute-song’s word,

or bother to recall a mourning rhyme…

“I saw you on a distant shore

bear faith I never truly bore,

I hear the hymn you sang before:

‘the Silent One’s song shall forever soar…’”

And as the mining man made as to leave,

the pathos paused his feet, and forced a frown.

Just one more moment waiting on the eave,

he’d hear one more strain, glaring at the ground…

“Spear I shall hoist for your memory,

words I shall write for your sons to see.

They will not take them nor hear from me…

still, I’ll ensure that they know of thee…”

At these now tearful words, Nolda, too, wept.

This very venture of his own he’d made

so that his own dear daughters might be kept

from anguish like the one Wrenogal played.

“You mustn’t play so loud,” the brave man called.

“Now, tell me, why are you so sadly sprawled?”