Prelude:
Heugh Ariyan
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Set thirty years prior to the events in A Chronicle of Crowns
“Oh, it’s ghastly, Heugh. Positively ghoulish! Why you can’t walk around the Crown Keep looking like that, people will think you’re a monster! Some sort of terrible creature!”
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Heugh flashed his devilish grin. “All the better to eat you up then!” he said as he lunged to envelope Rosie Lark in an embrace. She squealed with joy and squirmed from his arms.
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“Tell us how it happened again?” This from Heugh’s young brother, Auburn, who was no older than eight, ten years Heugh’s junior. Both he and their even younger cousin, the prince York, were sitting on the edge of the infirmary bed, squirming with all the unbound exuberance of boyhood.
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The lady, Rosie Lark, was their governess. The middle child of a smaller House—the rulers of Fayshade, a picturesque town on the mountainous banks of the White Run. Heugh had hoped she’d come alone. But there would be time for a more… intimatereunion in the days to come.
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“How what happened?” Heugh asked little Auburn. Turning his head left and right in mock confusion as he said so, giving the boys a view of the ghastly hole where once his right ear occupied space. The boy’s giggled viciously.
“Your ear, brother!” Auburn squealed.
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“Ahh, that,” he said with a wink in Lady Lark’s direction. “Well, as you know. I’ve been away—”
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“Fighting in the war!” both Auburn and Prince York said in unison.
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“That’s right, fighting the evil men of the west—”
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“The ones who killed Cousin Eva!” Auburn said.
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Heugh shot a cautious glance to young York. The boy was only five, but the death of his sister was not lost on him. In fact, it had been Heugh who had found the girl, his dear cousin, naked, stabbed repeatedly, the Hammond brothers standing around her, pleased in their triumph over an innocent, young girl. He had wished he hadn’t been the one tasked with protecting her. He had been her escort to meet her betrothed. And he had failed both her and the kingdom in the process…
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At times he could feel that failure overwhelm him, devouring him of joy, of happiness. If he swallowed it hard enough, he could bury it deep, keep himself numb to it and anything else in the process… But he could not dwell on it any longer. What was done, was done. And the Hammonds would receive a just punishment for their crime.
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“Are you telling the story, or am I?” Heugh quickly said, hoping to shut his little brother up. “Now, while Will and Hemsley took the Kingslands’ fleet to the heart of the Stormy Coast, I joined the armies of the northern regions in attacking the Crosslands. And we were making headway too! I was tasked with aiding the lordling Benjamin Ashwood in toppling House Gothor—”
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“Lord Protectors of the Crosslands!” Auburn recited.
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“That’s right. Close allies of those Rhemdari bastards in the Stormy Coast.”
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“What is, Rhem…dari?” Auburn asked.
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Heugh smiled at Lady Lark. “Governess?”
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Rosie Lark sighed. “It seems I’ve been lack in teaching the boys history,” she said. “Before the west was part of Aralia, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the men there were divided into two tribes, the Mirrenites—a nomadic people who travelled here and there—and the Rhemdari who lived in the kingdom of Rhemdar that stretched from the cold fields of the Old King’s Plains to the sea. Now,” she said with an accusatory glance Heugh’s way, “the word Rhemdari is considered a slur towards the decedents of those people living in the west. And one we should not say in good company, boys. Do you hear?”
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“Yes, Lady Lark,” the boys said in sing-song unison.
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“Yes, Lady Lark,” Heugh repeated.
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Rosie shook her head, but chuckled none the less.
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“So, there I was,” Heugh continued. “We had marched to Andoy, the very seat of House Gothor, having driven back his liege lords and taking the cities of the Crosslands one-by-one. But Andoy had been bolstered by the Houses of the Stormy Coast. Lord Sammel Wynard of Erwick was leading the Stormy Coast armies in tandem with Lord Gothor. The battleground was thick with men fighting each other. There was barely any room to breathe. I’d pushed ahead with Lord Ashwood. We were cutting swaths through the Rhemdari bastards. But out of nowhere, Lord Wynard appeared, broadsword in hand. He lifted it up over his head and mine,” he lifted his arms up, performing the part, “and brought it down,” he said swiping his hands down onto the bed.
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“He took my ear, clean off, and he would’ve cloven me in two were it not for the strength of my pauldron,” he said, gesturing to his shoulder which was black and blue with a spreading bruise that felt as painful as it looked.
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“What happened to Lord Wynard?” little York asked.
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“I stumbled to the ground, from the sheer strength behind the blow,” Heugh continued. “But I gathered myself, shook off the pain, and drove my sword up through Lord Wynard’s guts.”
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“Was there blood?” York asked, wide-eyed and excited.
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“Gallons of it,” Heugh replied. “Spilling from the old lord’s guts all over my hands and sword and—”
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“That’s quite enough, I think,” Rosie Lark said, shaking her head. “I can’t bear to hear much more, keep your gore to yourself, Heugh Ariyan!”
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“Awww!” the boys cried, clearly reveling in the tale.
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Heugh laughed and leaned back in the bed. He felt suddenly exhausted. He needed rest, but resting in the keep infirmary was so dull.
“Let’s get that wrapped up,” Rosie said, taking a bandage and gingerly wrapping it around Heugh’s head to cover up the still tender wound.
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“The clerics can do that,” Heugh said.
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“Oh, I don’t mind,” Rosie said sweetly. “Let me care for you.”
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“What happened to Andoy?” Auburn asked.
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“It was taken,” Heugh replied. “Lord Ashwood took Andoy. I was rushed back home, and he was going on to meet up with Will somewhere in the Stormy Coast.”
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“Will you go back?” Auburn asked.
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Heugh nodded. “Once I’m better.”
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“I hope not,” Rosie Lark said sweetly, tiring off the bandage around his head.
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“Not without rest, he won’t,” an elderly man’s voice said from the entrance to the infirmary.
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They all turned to see Grand Keeper Leech wobbling his way towards them. His long, white beard swaying with each step, a stack of books in the crook of one arm. “Come, come Lady Lark, it is near supper, best get the boys ready,” he said, waving his free hand to clear the way of them.
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Rosie beckoned the boys to make way and gave Heugh a bashful nod promising to return after dinner, before ushering the boys from the room.
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The old keeper wandered to Heugh’s bedside and dropped the stack of books on the bed, jostling Heugh as he did so. “Here you are, Sir Heugh, all the Crown Library has on the subject of fauns. Not that there is much. Why, as I recall, even in the library at Stormnest you’d be hard pressed to learn anything on the subject. Might I ask why the sudden curiosity?”
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Heugh greedily reached for the tomes, oddly excited and intrigued by what he might discover therein. This should satiate his boredom.
“When I was in the Crosslands there was a man in Lord Ashwood’s army, a hunter from Misthaven who told these stories of his times north of the great lake, in the unexplored wilds there,” he explained. “His stories were full of strange and nightmarish things, creatures he called fauns, like little deerlings, that ate raw flesh like some kind of animal. He said once he came across a troupe of dwarves, travelling the old under-roads who told him of the creatures and warned him to keep away from them, that they were cursed. I haven’t been able to shake his stories since,” Heugh replied.
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“Stories, dear lad, that’s all they are,” Keeper Leech replied. “Elves, faun, goblins, shades, all fables from a time long past.”
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“Do you think they could have existed once?” he asked.
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The old man shrugged. “If they did, they no longer do. There were no keepers back then to record it,” he said, as he began to shuffle from the room. “If there had’ve been, perhaps we might remember them better! Rest, my lad! That’s what you need most.” He wobbled from the room, leaving Heugh alone in the infirmary.
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Heugh reached for the books. The room was silent, but for the gentle flipping of old, yellowed parchment as he fingered through the books. The first three were disappointing, nothing more than collections of fairytales that told stories of prancing, flute-playing fauns. The imagery depicted was all the same—tall, goat-looking men with hooves instead of feet, bark in place of skin, and mossy growths instead of hair.
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One told the tale of Fee-orn the Fool, a bumbling faun who wanted to learn magic from the ancient Mages of Stormnest, but all he ended up doing was causing more trouble than good and ended up being expelled from the Academy.
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Another told the story of simply, the faun, a character who wooed women into the woods in the Valley of Elm, bewitching them with his flute, where he’d bury them in the ground to feed his trees. The faun was eventually hunted and axed to death by the hero of the story, the woodsman.
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The third was a vague story of faun and elves and dancing dwarves singing around a black shadow, using their voices to trap the shadow in the earth.
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Nursery rhymes. All of them.
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He was about to give up on the other books, when a large, old tome caught his eye. It seemed more weathered and delicate than the others. Certainly, it was thicker, the pages more brittle, the smell one of dry parchment and stale air, as if it hadn’t been opened in some time.
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He cracked the spine and let the scent loose. It seemed to be a strange collection of gathered histories, copied from original works by authors that Heugh had never heard of—not that he had extensive knowledge on such things as it were.
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A table of contents listed off the collected essays and included titles like: A Comprehensive Description of the Aiyar, and Sir Ryxander Quintilia’s Voyage Through the Honkhou Sea of the Mogai, or The Dinomancers of Kosovia. But towards the end of the list, was a title that caught his eye. It read, Aeldor’s Account on the Corruption of the Faun. He flipped to the pages listed and began to read:
The following account has been recorded by Keeper Gastron Finderow, Keeper of Misthaven, from an account here recorded by Lord Mikin Ashwood, Third Lord of Misthaven, previously recorded by a man named Malhara Shavanda, to whom it was dictated by Aeldor son of Orlandor of the Mithan:
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“We had taken them in, few though there were. Refugees of Ye’thalyas Ellynbrae. Some, we learned, fled to Teleth, but were there turned away by the Moon Warden who sensed upon them that which we did not. A sickness, they said, had perverted their moon well. Father did not believe it, for the well had been blessed by Torial in the dawn. I volunteered to venture forth to see for myself.
As I traversed, I began to wonder where the Oaken-roe had gone? As I ventured south, there were none there. The wood is crowded and thick, their careful care has been disrupted making the wood dark and dangerous to trek. The faun were ever their gardeners. Perhaps the Oaken-roe were fed from the moon well and withered away. I wonder if this has spread across all Oaken-roe groves and must send word to the other Wardens.
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When I reached Ye’thalyas Ellynbrae I found the labyrinth in ruin. But I was not alone. One was there, one of the Wise, the faun Feoryn, who seemed addled and lost at what had befallen his people.
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The dead were everywhere, their bodies wooden and cold where they lay. There were, however, others. Faun of a different sort twisted and changed, mindless in their pursuit of death and destruction. My rangers and I fought them off, but they were numerous, and there was no reasoning with them. They have been made dumb.
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Feoryn, too, seemed ill. His mouth was stained with blood, and I witnessed him snatch a coney from the heather and sink his teeth into it while it still yet lived. I fear he too has succumbed to whatever illness has perverted his people. His mind is sound; however—he has not been stricken dumb. Perhaps, as one of the Wise, he is somewhat immune?
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I have taken three samples of the moon well. One, I sent to Teleth with Indris. One, I sent to Astalar with Aelthane. The third I brought back to my father in Ohalland.
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When I returned, I learned that the faun we had taken in had turned into the same mindless beasts as those who haunted the ruins of their home. They attacked our kind, killing many, and consuming their flesh before fleeing into the wilds.
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Mother thinks the perversion has seeped into the well from the Under Realm. She believes it has the taint of Kostantyne upon it. But as Elzik the Wise says, he was shackled to the Under in the forming of the world and he and his demon-kin have no touch upon our lands.
We have sent scouts to Ilya Dorthalion in the east, to see if the faun there have befallen the same fate as those in Ye’thalyas Ellynbrae. I pray to Elramir that they have been spared.”
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Thus ends the account. As Keeper of Misthaven, I have no foreknowledge of this Ye’thalyas Ellynbrae or Ilya Dorthalion, as they have been so written. Nor, do I have any knowledge of who the narrator—Aeldor son of Orlandor—or his compatriots, Indris and Aelthane might be and can find no record of such names.
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Nor, have I any knowledge of this Kostantyne and the “Under Realm” within which he is shackled, or Torial, this figure who blesses wells. Although, I imagine they might be some sort of pre-Aralian creation tale, deities of some such pagan belief from some barbaric spoken history of those who hadn’t the knowledge or understanding of the Nine-in-One.
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And who these “Wise” are, I can only suspect. Elzik and Feoryn are herein named. But if they were indeed, “Wise” then I imagine they would have discovered a cure to whatever plague had befallen these creatures. There is one in Tyregarden who has often called himself “Wise”. The strange conjurer Howell Pendengalle. Perhaps the long-lived man would know more on this. I shall pen a letter to him immediately.
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I have, of course, heard whispers and tales of the faun and the Oaken-roe—fantastical tree creatures of Northern Vale folklore—and have included the following themed limerick I find quite amusing:
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“There was an old Oaken of Roe,
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Who stubbed his very large toe—”
Heugh shut the book.
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He leaned back in the bed, propped up by many plush pillows. The room was silent, the clerics had left and he was all alone. The window closest to him was open, and the gentle sound of chirping birds from the royal gardens flitted through the window. He let his eyes wander between the garden trees and against the cliff walls at the far border of the gardens. His thoughts wandered from there to his time in Valaryn, when he had been the escort of his cousin Evalynn. They wandered to the Crosslands, where he had fought against the armies of House Gothor. They wandered to the fields about Andoy, somewhere, in the carnage and bodies that littered those fields, his ear lay, forever a piece of him left behind in those endless plains.
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He knew he’d have to go back. Will needed him, Hemsley needed him. He needed to return to the fight, for Evalynn, for Auburn and little York, here. For Rosie Lark. But behind his duty, the unknown beckoned him. The stories of the hunter, exploring the unknown woods north of Lewessa Lake, beyond the borders of Aralia, rang in the back of his head like a longing that ached to be explored. The world was so big, so vast, and here he was, just a small, insignificant, earless young man, toiling away in a tiny speck of it, pretending to know all that the world held.
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He fingered the bandage on his head, wrapped around the hole where his ear used to be. The wound still stung.
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He looked at the book before him, the strange words written therein had only conjured more questions than answers. Questions he vowed to have answered one day.
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The world was wide and riddled with potential, he knew that. Once this war was over, he promised himself he’d seize that potential. He’d make his way beyond the borders of Aralia. He’d explore the wilds, document his findings, and find answers to his questions.
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Sure, if the hunter was too be believed the wilds were full of creatures and monsters. But he had learned there were monsters even here, even in Aralia. Men who had been corrupted by what they’d seen, what they believed. Men changed by battle, hardened by loss, twisted by influence. Sure, there were monsters out there in the wild, but he was Heugh Ariyan, and he could handle any kind of monster thrown his way.
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