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Wind. Daniel Mello
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At the forefront of the castle, the gatehouse carries a cross-hatched portcullis with tempered spikes sharp enough to pierce an anvil, and serves as the entrance to the outer and inner baileys. From there, expanding outward in a jagged circle of Earthstone and iron, the towering curtain walls grew to outline the castle grounds. The grand scale and evolving architecture of Hyrendell Castle was second to nothing else on the Island.
Growing in the shadows around the castle’s massive footprint is Hyrendell Village. Soon after the original stronghold had finished construction, a protective parapet wall was built around a large section of the castle’s adjoining, southern-facing acreage. This would provide a barrier within which the commoners would live and work, develop and thrive, to sustain the kingdom.
In the earliest years of Hyrendell’s lifetime, the people were ruled and protected by many noble and virtuous kings, all descendent from an ancient lineage of knights. The kingdom existed in a dream of prosperity, blossoming into a center of commerce for the castle and its village, eventually expanding outward to sporadic merchant posts on the outlying edges of the Island. Travelers from afar would traverse the Ardelantian Ocean until they reached the waters directly surrounding Hyrendell Island. Known as the Sea of Gennia, sealads and merchants alike would dock at one of four merchant outposts on the Island to trade and purchase goods. Yet, even with Hyrendell’s magnificence, nothing could stop the progression of time, and the seemingly endless age of prosperity concluded.
Invaders from distant lands lay siege to the castle when they heard about the Island’s success. While many kings squashed the invaders’ offensive quite efficiently, it was from the inside where most of the damage would stem. Approximately 1700 years after Hyrendell was established, greed and corruption took hold.
Nobility lost to the lust for power when one of the greatest kings of history was murdered in the night. Rumors spread that the assassination was ordered by the king’s mendacious Privy Consul, yet no evidence ever surfaced to prove it. And as the king had no known heir, the Consul voted the reigning Lord High Steward to the throne, marking the beginning of a monarchical tyranny for a land whose brightest days had vanished like a thief in the night.
Thus, time and envy has caused the once prosperous and enchanting kingdom of Hyrendell to descend into a nightmare of domination and oppression. Now, the solid contours of the cold granite throne gave no discernable comfort to the man who sat unwillingly within. As such, Nielius Evacus, the current king of a corrupted Hyrendell, played his role as the leader of Men until a moment would surface where he could escape his pitiful existence.
His aged, battle-worn fingers wrapped over the armrests of the throne in an effort to support his aching figure as he attempted to make himself appear to belong there. His sapphire eyes gazed out over the Main Hall as his clean shaven, but hardened features portrayed quite well his annoyance at protocol. In his mind, Nielius was yearning for the sanctuary of his study; to flee from the wretched, joyful company of his Privy Consul and soldiers as they supped inside the Hall to the only place that dulled the unbearable silence of his thoughts. He hardly responded to his men’s efforts to spark up conversation, and he absently waved off another round of casket ale.
Although the highest position in Hyrendell’s hierarchy was secured for him by his lineage, Nielius had reluctantly grown to the aesthetic obligations of kingship; he was well aware that his presence was mandated at such events. Yet the continual compulsory appearances had long been grating his nerves. He believed that a king should not need an excuse to depart from his company. His Consul’s insistence that such appearances were necessary for the continued morale of the people was legitimate, though, regardless of the his own confidence in pervasive tyranny. Perhaps, if he was successful at feinting fatigue, he could create an illusion suitable enough for him to slip away from the commotion and chatter. He balled up a fist to rest a temple against it, and closed his eyes with an audible sigh.
The heated conversation around him seemed to grow stronger, or maybe it was just him focusing on the drunken banter of the soldiers, but his rouse must have been working. Within minutes, the men stopped coming to him with questions and stories, leaving him to further enjoy his façade. He took a deep breath, making sure to snort, and relaxed into his stone chair. Suddenly, springing forth from the back of his mind was a most urgent thought that had almost slipped from him completely. It was of an order he had given his High Steward Lotharius Fortis before the afternoon was finished, an order that required his attention in a place as private as his study. In an instant, the king’s eyes flashed open and he jumped from his throne.
“Your Highness, may I ask where you’re go…” one of the king’s Councilors began, but he was interrupted quickly.
“When Lotharius returns, tell him to meet me in my study,” the king commanded. Without waiting for an answer, he stomped off along the hall dais to a stairwell and swiftly ascended.
Slamming the solid oak chamber door behind him, the king paced across the quiet confines of his personal study until he reached a small curved balcony, and leaned against its parapet to suck in the night air. The evening was mildly cloudy, but the distance was clear, allowing his eyes to trace the jagged coastline of his island until it disappeared into the atmosphere. Looking westward, out upon the iron sea, toward the incalculable stars alight in the night sky, the king of Hyrendell waited.
Behind him, from the steely depths of the darkest shadows that haunted his sanctuary, the voice he craved and dreaded came like the inevitable death of a thousand lifetimes. Simultaneously baritone and falsetto, commanding and deceivingly compassionate, serrated and unimaginably silky, it spoke in horrendously perfect rhythms to the monarch of the kingdom.
“EveRythIng iS peRfeCt,” it soothed. “YOu nEEdn’T FeaR fOr yOuR LiFe.”
Then it vanished, leaving King Nielius to clutch at his chest.
As it did every time he heard that voice, the same terrified shiver rocked the king’s spine and stroked his skin with prickles, all while warming his heart and calming his mind. The confusion between terror and tranquility that jostled the king’s psyche brought the same comfort to him as being fought over by two gorgeous maidens, like being in the middle of a battle that essentially confirms your existence. And this was the only peace he could find.
The king closed his eyes and nodded silently in agreement. “Yes,” he said, “Everything will be fine.” But his words only bounced off the lifeless stone walls of his sanctuary.
Within the space of a few breaths, the chamber door creaked open to reveal the king’s High Steward Lotharius, followed by two guards who where holding a pile of rags the size of a person between them. A rare smile split the king’s lips as he motioned the guards to release the being. At once, it dropped to a heap of fabric onto the stone floor and began to pulse with slow, sharp breaths.
“She came unwillingly, Highness,” Lotharius reported in his usual abrasive utter, “but she is intact, I assure you.” He strode over to an ancient armchair and plopped into it, grabbing a handful of grapes from a nearby basket.
The king took in his Steward’s words as he paced in a slow semi-circle around the ragged prisoner. Quickly, he glanced up at the guards.
“Leave us,” he commanded in a breath. Without any hesitation, the guards vanished through the oak door, shutting it securely behind them.
The king continued to pace around the prisoner, staring down into the tainted, discolored clothing of his intrigue, quietly formulating the proper questions within his mind. Meanwhile, Lotharius sat comfortably quiet in the armchair, chewing his fruit, his eyes darting between his king and the prisoner. And the heap of rags that lay crouched upon the stone floor, breathing with audible difficulty, began to move. Wrinkled, crooked fingers emerged from some indiscernible opening in the clothing and pressed against the stone, slowly rolling up into an arched kneel. The hands came to rest upon unseen thighs, and the breathing became more controlled. The head of the prisoner, shrouded inside a huge hood, shifted toward the armchair for a moment, then back toward the king’s feet and started to convulse slightly as it released a cackling laughter.
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