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.5

Durn was a little man, no more than ten,

who was not taller than he’d been at eight.

And now I say it, I can’t recall when

he said his birthday was at any rate.

He always seemed a little kid to me,

and that suited his methods very well.

As long as no-one that he sued could see

that he was older, all things they would tell.

So gossip was his profit—both from snobs

that chuckled when he asked of laborers,

to those whose hands were full of scratchy knobs—

those tethered to taxes and treasurers.

From both liar and mean he learned the fact,

so Wyveria knew just how to act.

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?”

~

Jumped to his feet, and pulling on his bow,

but with no arrow, Wrenogal let loose

a string of nothing at his could-be foe,

then raised his hands in gesture of a truce.

“You’ve caught me,” said the Wren, “behind my cloak.

I’ve been sorely distracted as of late.

Surely you know to whom you have just spoke?

Surely you know mine is a wicked fate?”

He eyed his quiver, many arms away.

“You ask this stranger why he lay so sprawled,

and ask not why, in all the world, he lay

where ‘Fell’ is in the very name it’s called.”

His lip twitched in a mad-ish grin. “I too

am ‘fell’. Though not to one as calm as you.”

~

“I have heard this, and must be fool to ask

your story face to face and not from inns.

I came not here upon your bounty’s task,

and go not to see what my story wins.

You mentioned someone’s sons–I do not think

that one becomes concerned with others’ heirs

if his hands with bad blood so sullied stink

of murder as your name in public bears.

And you can sing.” The miner looked away.

“I must be soft-eyed to believe it. Yet,

I do not think a song could ever play

so sweet on wicked lips as yours beget.”

With heavy footsteps, Nolda plodded down

to stand with Wrenogal on even ground.

~

The sprigs of Wrenogal’s allies now grow,

and we shall see what more they have to say,

but you must know of what other seeds sow,

so I must yet again take you away.

In Thalynvriy, whose armies blind by day,

they armed their catapults with binding cords,

so that, if Wrenogal flew near that way,

their armies would reap his capture’s rewards.

Each dock town warned each nearby private bay

to watch for the Sea Prowler, and to house

its captain safely, secretly, and stay

its flight until its own guards they could rouse.

The capitols bribed sellswords with the pay

of class and title—work would be their past.

And so spread those with morals dim and gray

through town and city, and each country vast.

But nowhere was this hunt more of a mess

than precisely where you would place your guess.

~

Back home in Lewellen there was a man

who sold his sword for gold and grueling toil,

whose own gold knew not where it once began—

for violence and black deeds was its true soil.

Hate this man more than any other. Fear

his name more, even, than you now fear Zlyr’s.

This mercenary will on your loves leer,

who least loves noble men, and most trusts curs.

Remember this name: Erison–and loathe

the one who bears it. Envy not his strength,

for when the Wren was outcast, this one oathed

to claim his bountied blood at any length.

Erison knew no other life than this.

One more dead man he would not know to miss.

~

“You’re well known for your violence,” said Zlyr.

They stood in a high court, attendants nigh:

Aerandel and her faithful retainer

Nevgondian looked on as they stood by.

“I know no other life, your lordship. When

my home was wrecked by bandits, I endured.

As mercenary I might find them. Then

they’ll know what pain their cruelty incurred.”

Aerandel whispered into Zlyr’s sharp ear,

“I wouldn’t trust this one. He is too fazed

to heed us. And his hot heart I do fear

would risk being by Wrenogal appraised.”

But Zlyr thought otherwise. “Cunning you’ll be

if you have any mind to work for me.”

~

Upon Erison’s shoulder rested, soft,

a Shroud, darker than any dark you’ve seen,

which whispered earward, never being doffed,

secrets on which its wearer should be keen.

An artifact of a more mythic age

when had the Shadow far more power, ere

the Wight enticed bright Tolno to his rage,

and forced him into darkness everywhere.

But this Shroud housed his thought and every snare

inside its shadowed swathe; and to a knave

like Erison, its secrets it would share—

to lead to both the garish and the grave.

You’ll like the ways this way goes. I am sly

enough for this false king to get us by.

~

So, smiling at the king’s and Shroud’s remarks,

the hired sword bowed down his head. “I will

follow wherever your mad Wren now larks,

discreetly, ‘til his capture I fulfil.”

“You’ll not make yourself known until his neck

is open to your blade. And then you’ll end

the chase, and have him in your quiet check,

and not a moment more with him you’ll spend.

I’ve others to accomplish with brute force

what you are wont to do. I may assist

you in your own search—your personal course—

if you, your coarse instincts, you will dismiss.”

Erison’s interest piqued, “you’ll find my mark

if I find yours? How soon can I embark?”

~

Nevgondian was watchful. He could see

that here was more than there appeared to be.

He looked from Zlyr, who he knew quite shrewdly,

to this brash, bold, yet bright mercenary.

His eyes he narrowed, and his lips he pursed—

Their guest had shoulders that seemed prone to shrug

when other, guileless mortals would have cursed

to hear what he’d heard; but this man was smug.

The knight looked over to his Aerandel,

who eyed him back—her own gaze just as keen.

They two would have a few shrewd words to tell

of what had been said, and what had not been.

But now he silently allowed his king

to sign this sellsword’s fresh indenturing.

~

To many places Erison then went,

informed by whispers from the Shroud he wore.

To hiding places he himself had spent,

to shady taverns and shadier shores.

His tactics were somewhat like little Durn’s,

though with the leer of one whose aims were worse.

Secrets drawn from life’s seediest cisterns

were chief among the tricks hid in his purse.

To Kothe first sent the hunter seeking trail,

it would have been the quickest place to fly

for one who, from Lewellen, had turned tail—

it would have been where he would first have tried.

But Kothe brought nothing. As the Shroud had said:

“your quarry would have tried a place of dread.”

~

To Thalynvriy, then, Erison pressed on,

to where there could, no manmade force, break through,

to where there were a thousand eyes upon

the walls of fortresses no man could hew.

His papers, as a vassal of a king,

he bore before his face, avoiding those

who knew his garments were as mismatching

his vassalage as dove’s feathers to crow’s.

“This place is dread enough,” he said to none

but that which rested on his shoulder. “Still,

you know there is a dreader place. The one

where feral things do more than claw and kill.”

He knew the place the Shroud spoke of. And dread

indeed embodied the Hills of the Dead.

~

The bones of men were not to be here found,

but this precisely was what caught the heart

into its own ominous beating sound,

and echoes of the stories that took part

in these Dead Hills, where only those returned

who gods rejected and who devils spurned,

who drank and spake naught but what they had seen

that none should see, that should not e’en have been.

Now Erison approached, his failing frame

nigh tripping over dusty, scattered stones,

and at the howl of one or two, who’d blame

his fleeing, seeing half man-half beast bones.

“Mountains, at least, you ought to try for next,

if you are, by a few cute creatures, vexed.”

~

Of dreaded mountains there were only three.

The range of Ostia, where bandits roamed,

whose visage matched their peoples’ villainry.

The ones he’d just now timorously combed,

where, if the Wren was hid, he might as well

have hid in his own coffin. Then, the wreath

of shipwreck, where they say Locrien dwells,

the dire, tortured crags that make the Teeth.

They said that Wrenogal flew on the wind,

no ship he’d need to spare to make that cove.

And if society you must rescind,

where better than that merciless karst-grove?

To Warponde, then, and then to Dustan’s door.

If not, his Ostian haunts he would endure.

xxxiii

“A steal—a vein more valuable than steel

has Nolda” said Durn in his mother’s ear.

He’d been spying the streets, when, off his heel,

hands piloted him where no-one would hear.

“He told me he’s found something in these hills

worth staying for. But he demands it stays

between him and his buyer--or he kills

who, their shared vow of silence, disobeys.”

Wyveria peered out her window, to

the miner shifting idly in the street.

“Is this not he who has two daughters, who

forgets his stature when he and they meet?

He wouldn’t threaten murder without cause,

however lucrative his secret was.”

xxxiv

“Your bribe is wrong,” she said. “You can’t mine steel

in any vein. Which tells me--you have found

not metal, but a treasure you must seal

away with codes to cart the word around.”

Inside her peddle parlor they were sat.

Durn took watch at the window, Nolda squeezed

into a tight armchair, where’d been a cat

who mewed in essays, being so displeased.

While Wyveria questioned he who’d said

he’d kill whoever double-crossed his word.

“I won’t betray your quarry, but you’ll dread

forgoing the occasion I afford.

Your current buyers leave you. I will not,

especially if you tell what you’ve got.”

xxxv

“So what is it you’ve really found?” The cat

jumped quietly onto the windowsill.

The man who stole her chair looked past her, at

the nearest mountain, past the nearest hill.

And then the curtains settled, and the room

regained its darkness, by mere candles lit.

He turned back to Wyveria, with whom

some said trade was as woeful as her wit.

And wit she had. But, so far, scarcely friends

with any of the other known richlings.

Such humble means could prove her. “That depends

on how loyal you are to courts and kings.”

Wyveria now grinned. “Only to those

who have a bit of dirt stained on their nose.”

xxxvi

They’d walked for many miles, off the trails

that usually were where good shoes were wont,

and though she worried not to break her nails,

the trip was dismal for the maid savant.

Durn once again took watch—behind, this time,

as Nolda had instructed he should do.

If anyone their journey now should mime,

the deal would die, and discord would ensue.

“I do not know what you will make of this,”

said Nolda. “But I hope you’ll craft a scheme

that fits both our needs nicely.” Then the hiss

of wind through branches grew, while loose leaves teemed.

From overhead, the beat of dragon wings

was measure for the secret Wren who sings:

Tell me how you wished to travel

to the isles of the sea,

bringing gifts you could unravel

for the strangers you would see!

Tell me how to make them,

tell me how to craft what you could share!

Tell me how to find them,

tell me how to be their everywhere!

I will see the isles you sought for,

I will bring the love you bore,

I will be your bold endeavor—

make your giving give some more!

xxxvii

They now approached the seaside, where the ship

lay washed upon the beach, her cave-in bare,

and growing new life with each new wave’s sip

that sweetly washed into her open air.

And Wrenogal descended, with a smile

that hadn’t been seen on his weary lips

since ere the Prowler’s first nautical mile

surpassed the likes of other, lesser ships.

And looked first, at his greatest, proudest joy:

the broken vessel, cankering with moss,

that could no longer voyages employ,

but was not, in his new mind, any loss.

And in that rapture turned to face his friend,

his first friend since his own steed’s own first end.

xxxviii

Now, I tell you, here’s a sight I really wish that I had seen.

When the Wren appeared before Wyveria, who had not been

expecting more than long lost treasures, or a secret she could use,

instead: a person, who, they said, had nothing left but death to lose.

But I’m told she was as clever as her reputation said.

Said she had far more to lose by vexing him or dealing dread,

instead, she said she needed him for something listed in his song:

why not help this fair merchant in reversing trade that had gone wrong?

“Here in Dustan are vast quarries, rich, but they cannot be sold—

mountains bar the way from changing caravans from ores to gold.

But take your dragon, secretly, transport our market in the sky,

and then good men like Nolda will not need to make their families fly.”

Wrenogal stared at the woman who asked that he be a coach,

and—swallowing his princely pride—he asked her more, without reproach.

xxxix

Back in her parlor, where the cat was curled

upon the desk within a slim sunbeam,

Wyveria a small letter unfurled

as her door cracked, revealing a horse team.

Before the well-brushed pair there stood the man

who’d written her the letter. “Dear, oh dear,

I’ve heard you’re staying put! You understand

I was about to leave this hovel here?

I’ve invited a few more here to pry,

if you, of course, don’t mind our stopping by.

We simply want to know why one like you

would fail to follow where your wealth was due.”

And filtered in a host of eyes askance,

to undo and reclothe her rightful stance.

xl

“You must know they have well established roads

near Dunwich. That’s where I think I will go.

You’re welcome to come with me–we’d have loads

to talk about! The journey’s nice, you know!”

“That boy of yours. It’s not safe for him here,

but he’d have fun in Ryke. Why not go there?”

“I have a caravan that goes there! Clear

from Octave to the coast—our teams could share!”

“You know they’ll rip you up out here,” said he

who entered first. His eyes tried to be kind.

“Rip up what? You’ve all said, empty I’ll be

without your coaches. But, I think you’ll find

I’ve got a note you’ll never earn.” The door

flung wide by Nolda, looking like a boar.

xli

The cat leaped into Wyveria’s lap

at the crash of the door. “You need help, Miss?”

“Not now,” the lady said, milking the trap

she’d laid specifically for fools like this.

Their eyes, which started so proud to be here,

looked everywhere for any other door.

“Ah, that’s the only one. But never fear,

good Nolda is a kind man to the poor.”

She stood. “And poor you are if you must flank

a lady with such numbers—And such lies—

I would not be the one that you would thank

for coming, but your own illicit ties.”

The cat purred in her arms to see them leave.

“Dear Nolda, you’re a fine trick up a sleeve.”

xlii

As Nolda went to all the honest men

in Dustan, in the trades round about his,

Wyveria was questioned once again

by friends for whom her actions formed a quiz.

“You’re not going to Acles? There, I say,

your scope of demographics would be keen.”

“You’re staying? Why, when even on this day

the companies are nowhere to be seen?”

To all this, the fair merchant waved outside.

“See all the men who still live here? They’ll work

for those who cannot cross the countryside.

A job that stays is one they will not shirk.”

And, wagging heads, the capital seeped out,

while fortune in real people hung about.

xliii

The Wren flew through the night, to memorize

his route before the real route would be made,

and dipped beneath the clouds with furrowed eyes

to see through night—to know his course had stayed.

“And how has stayed my course!” He called below

to he he rode, whose wings suppressed the sky.

“Not that you’d know. You started it, you know—

the day you should have let my story die.”

He liked being in clouds. The bolt was there

that ‘saved’ him from the dragon in the storm.

Who was the seraph of the whirling air?

Who made sure that his life would be reborn?

Not Aeonia, he knew that for sure.

But he knew not who the three others were.

~

xliv: Lydoria

They say that one was master of the wind

(”that one would fit, whichever that one was”)

but she—if his memory hadn’t thinned—

was not so dreaded as that seastorm was.

They said a name at festivals more than

the others—and whenever there was song.

There was a pure connection that began

with wind to wherever the songs belong.

“That’s not so harsh as our wind,” said the Wren.

“Ours was a hurricane. No song in there.

It must not have been Lydoria, then.

I think that was the name they said at fair.

No wonder Naerendal studiously

rehearsed these stories to the listless me.”

~

xlv: Locrien

Another seemed to fit. The flaming one.

“That fits the lightning, kind-of, doesn’t it?

His stories are all pain, and never fun.

I think that really does.. Accurately fit.”

But he could not remember this one’s name.

They said it very rarely. More, by far,

he was called by his signature red flame,

and by the savage ways he left his scar.

“He’s left his scar on you, if it is he,”

he said quietly to the one below.

“And left an invisible one on me,

though not with fire. Not that I can know.”

Indeed, though not for him to know, some did,

if fire had a role in his life’s bid.

~

xlvi: Prydien

One more, they said, made gardens grow with tears.

She watered forests with her fearful sobs.

So many and so scattered were her fears,

that no-one knew where were her true heart’s throbs.

“That doesn’t sound like ours. Too sensitive.

Too caring, obviously, for new life

to see the likes of us, who would not live

without the instinct-anger of our strife.

Wherever that bolt came from, not from love

it struck. I cannot think anyone cared

enough for us to save, from high above,

a man who had naught but his revenge bared.”

That’s what I like about Wrenogal best.

He comes to wrong even by right’s behest.

xlviii

When Erison arrived at Dustan’s gate,

he saw the caravans of merchants leave.

He asked, “do you know—I see, I am late—

is there gold in these mountains to retrieve?”

They scoffed at his quaint question. He knew not

the dramas that had been made on that score.

But he would soon use that very same plot

to get gold—and to get a little more.

“There is one merchant left. There always will

be someone who will trust these wealthy peaks.

And anyone who, while most leave, stays still,

has more than money that their mind still seeks.”

But Erison went where his bones knew best:

the tavern, despite the Shroud’s shrewd behest.

xlix

Nevgondian was trapped by Aerandel,

who stood before the door he was to take,

inside an empty room, for now a well

of silence while the rest weren’t awake.

“You’ve got to track him. Erison,” she said.

“You know I can’t,” Nevgondian replied.

“You know, my last knight always quickly sped

to do whatever I had asked,” she lied.

She glared with something grim, much like malice,

but with something inside it that was kind.

Nevgondian knew she could be callous,

but had more than ambition on her mind.

“I see. I won’t betray the standard now.”

But Aerandel did not, his flight, allow.

l

“You know I didn’t mean that. You are far

the best—my favorite—of the ones who’ve served

beside me. There is no obsequious bar

between you and the honor you deserve.”

“’It’s just that this task must be—must—be done,’”

chided the knight. Who imitated her.

“We both know how this court is truly run,

no day makes any day the simpler.”

She’d promised quiet, once the court was still,

once whatever was brewing with the king

was better. She knew, even at the will

of Zlyr to join the Wren’s crew, it would sting.

“I’ve promised many things. And you are kind

to serve me still, despite what lays behind.”

li

“But do this last, and leave my service hence

once this is done. I’ve asked too much of you.

But bear this as your promised recompense:

I will, to you and yours, always be true.”

She could not meet his gaze, but pushed away,

and sped to where her true work would begin.

Where even her Nevgondian must stay

away: her study, and she barred therein

her doors. She would not tempt her thoughtful charge

with finding her. And over sheaves she pored

of parchment detailing the Red Hawk’s charge

against the Wren. What crimes they could accord.

And tears dripped from her nose, blurring the lines

she read, while tucked away in her confines.