The tall Fairy man, the dewdrop crown encircling his forehead indicating his elected kingship, leaned back in his great oaken chair. He sat stroking his sharp bearded chin as the young page before him recounted his tale.
“I was walking through the woods, admiring the snow shining on the distant mountains and the birds singing in and out through the sun dapples, when there came a terrible black cloud that blotted out our precious Riverland sun and gave me piercing chills. The creatures fled to their homes and the wind died in the grass…and then came the foul odor. Such a stench as I have never known to invade my senses overwhelmed me, rendering me stupid until I gathered my strength to command my legs to move away from the glen.” The Fairy children took great joy in spinning wild yarns…but somehow the Fairy king, sitting thoughtfully silent on his big oak throne, did not believe the young boy was leading him astray from the truth. Indeed he had smelled a deathly pallor to the winds that rustled their green leaves and no woodland creatures had visited their dwelling that morning. The Riverland woods had become silent and still. No such restless peace had permeated the rich black earth, the sparkling white streams, the creatures of the woods and forests since the Great War, when the Fairies fought against the men for the Riverlands and, after a long, bloody battle in which many men and Fairies alike were slain, eventually won.
“What did you do then?” asked the king in his great rolling voice. He reached over and with long fingers poured the scattered page a bronze goblet full of a sweet thick liquid.
“I forced my legs to walk on through the forest, in the direction of your Cliffside dwelling, oh my king,” said the page, taking a sip of the offered drink. The stuff burned down his throat like fire and his clear purple eyes watered. Coughing, he continued.
“When I was but a good stone’s throw from your guard starting a shift at your door, I heard a high-pitched scream, as that of a human girl-child undergoing intense suffering.” The page’s smooth face grew pale as the king leaned forward, urging him to resume with his obsidian black eyes. “It…it was the most frightening thing I have ever heard.” The page took a gulp of his drink and grimaced at the scathing feeling. “I am sure that a small girl was in pain. I do not care for the human race any more than you do, my king, but a plague-curse strike me if ever I wish such agony upon any living thing.” The Fairy king shook his head thoughtfully and traced a circle on the cedar wood flooring at his sandaled feet. His features did not betray any emotion but in the depths of his soul, the Fairy was a peaceful creature. His page’s story troubled him deeply. The boy finished his drink and shuddered. He set the bronze goblet down upon the shining cedar floors and the clink sounded like a crash in the disturbing lull. The stench outside was stronger than it had been. The two Fairies regarded each other with bright solemn eyes. “What are your orders, oh king?” inquired the page softly. The king was aroused from his dark thoughts and he blinked his raven black eyes. “I will call a council,” he decided. “I can sense Evil in the tainted airs. We must be prepared to stand and fight and even die for a counter-cause against it.”
Conan looked over at the plain leather jerkin, the creamy sleeves of his lace-up shirt and the heavy black boots stuck all over with glinting silver nails, each as sharp as a two-edged sword. A weighty black cloak, designed for the constant onslaughts of freezing rain and furious blizzards, had been flung over his straw mattress. It looked like a crumpled dead thing, lying there on his cot. A dead body, that was it. Twisted beyond recognition. The minstrel’s lute he cradled in his arms, gently stroking the burns Northumbrio had given to its worn wooden sides. His master seemed to have burning blood, breath of fire, eyes of coal…and yet he had come from a northern land. Conan did not wish to fear him but the exiled duke’s ominous presence was on every loose flagstone, ever jagged castle spire and each beady red eye that blinked up from the shadows. Joy and laughter had no place there. Northumbrio’s world was one of blistering cold and searing heat. It was one where unkindness was encouraged. The kind of environment where, a day ago, Conan would have taken no part in. Yet whenever the minstrel tried to think a single thought against his master or try to regain a little bit of his former passion, a terrific pain would bit into his mind, numbing him until his relented to what was assuredly his master’s mind-reading powers. Conan hated it. He hated it ardently but Northumbrio seemed not to care whether his new slave agreed with his barbarous terms and let Conan be when he cursed his master’s hold over his spirit. It was a very subtle form of torture, this degradation of his instilled morals and motives, and slowly the remnants of Conan’s old life that had survived the dungeon and the shock of the sphere as being broken down into shards of depression, misery and hatred. During this black time Conan could not help but dare and think about his little mother, the people he had plucked his battered lute for. When Conan was a little boy, he had dreamed of the grand adventures and multitude of brave deeds he would perform with a merry countenance and a strong sense of right and wrong. But now, in his austere cell room, the young minstrel finally noticed and heeded for the first time the slow stripping of any hope he might still have cherished within his ardent soul.
There came a soft knock at Conan’s door and he was startled up from his gloomy thoughts. Walking warily he opened the door, shivering slightly at the echoing creak, to find a bedraggled young girl carrying a tray of food with bandaged hands. Her hair was gray and straggly, her mournful dark-ringed eyes dull and listless blue, her dress a mess of painstakingly-sewn patches. She said not a word, but held the tray out to Conan. Conan took the tray gingerly from her hands and looked down at his first meal in Northumbrio’s castle: a small dry piece of meat, some runny soup and a rusty cup of water, frozen in the middle. The little girl, certainly no older than six, looked up at Conan with a strange expression. She gave a little thrill and put a trembling hand out towards him. Conan, keeping his eyes upon the sickly child as if she might suddenly vanish, carefully set down his tray and reached his hand out to hers. The two touched ever so slightly and then with a shuddering, convulsive cough the girl jerked her hand away and sank to the cold stones, hacking.
Conan should have knelt down beside the girl and wrapped his long arms about her, murmured soothing words into the pointy red ears and rocked her back and forth like his mother used to do with him when he had experienced a fright…yet he found himself staring down at the quaking figure as a strange, almost enjoyable sensation pulsing in his veins. What foul devilry was this, to relish a young girl’s sickness? Conan felt the familiar prickle of Northumbrio’s power invading his mind as he reached down a hand to help the little girl up. She stared at him and, perhaps for the first time in years, an emotion flickered in her lazy eyes. An emotion, something like surprise or fondness, perhaps a little fear. Yet mostly there was a hopeful kind of wistfulness about her. Conan ignored the growing ache in his head as the rough bandages on the girl’s thin hands scratched his palms. He helped the girl up and did something he would regret for a long while. He squeezed her shoulders as an encouragement and pushed her gently down the hall. As Conan turned to pick up his tray, a ferocious scream split apart in his head and shook his sense until they felt empty and diminished. It was through tear-filled eyes that he watched the girl walk rigidly down the hallway once more, her hands hanging lumped and useless at her side, until she turned a corner.
Conan stumbled to his feet, barely able to bear the burning pain in his mind, and tripped into his room. Flinging himself on his cot the young minstrel clutched at his head and silently screamed out every word of praise and reverence he could possibly think of, directed towards Northumbrio in a wild rambling stream.
“You are wise and powerful, just and good, you care for your people and I am but a slave in your hands,” he cried out, sweat making his contorted face slick. “I meant no offense, no harm was intended, the child just looked so helpless and pitiful, I somehow HAD to help it but now I see this was wrong of me…” Gradually the pain began to wear off and Conan found himself truly thanking the monster that had controlled his mind.
“Master…you are good and fair and I thank you for what you did to me, do teach me a lesson.” Conan sat up, his eyes flashing. “I will never show love nor kindness to a living thing again if you do not so wish it.”
From in his high cold tower, Northumbrio laughed to himself. His breath made thick steam in the air and he popped a bit of his special creamy ice into his mouth. Talking around it, the huge dusky man looked at his sphere and said “The last bit of rebellion has been burnt out. Now begins the training.”
A tall man, about nineteen, walked through the rambling woods, his dark green cloak trailing along the withered pine needles. He did not stray from the path but measured his steps carefully with slate gray eyes that reflected the somber light touching off from the dense forest floor.
Slowly the trees thinned out and gave way to a crude camp. Shelters had been erected out of leaf-laden branches cut from the trees, and strong strips of leather used to tie the branches into a kind of lean-to. Several campfires flickered on the breeze-turned leaves and a deer roasted slowly over the cheery red embers. Men all clad in green cloaks with glistening sword hilts at their belts rested against the shuddering pines or sharpened their intricately-carved swords with quiet, rhythmic scrapes. One of the men’s swords caught the light shimmering off several tiny white moon fairies who danced every night in the beams when the moon was visible to the bare eye. The light bounced from the sword onto the young man as he entered the camp.
“Lorn, where have you been?” asked the man with the sword. Lorn shielded his eyes from the glint and worked his strong squarish jaw as he sat down next to his companion.
“I walked the length of the woods and halfway up ever mountain; I saw nor heard anyone,” Lorn answered wearily. For one so young, his voice was husky and deep. His companion, a massive redhead called Gorn, chuckled. “Did you look inside the trees?” he teased. Lorn cocked an eyebrow.
“Was I commanded to do so?” he answered.
“You might have had better luck had you looked inside the tree trunks; I hear the outcast brother and sister live inside a big tree at the side of the highway by themselves.” Lorn said nothing but rested his chin on the leather lacing of his shirt. His sandy brown hair fell across his face. After a while he said, “What makes the brother and sister defy our king and become rebel outcasts, wanted by every lawman from Crescent to Warwick and beyond?” Gorn gave a loud guffaw and said “Who knows what makes these crazy nonconformists act as they do. Their intentions are purely selfish, I can tell you that much.” Lorn was confused. “Yet is King Wencelsas not right and just?” Gorn turned and stared at his young friend, not saying a word.
“Is he not?” Lorn pressed. Gorn coughed and clambered to his feet.
“I am not able to say a cross word of Wencelsas; thus, I will say nothing.” Gorn turned a walked to his lean-to. Lorn relaxed against a thick tree trunk and slowly stroked the king’s emblem embroidered upon his inner jerkin.
