Wrenogal: Act II, xxi-xxvii
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?”