Young Writers Society

A high wind frizzled the silent woods, a gentle rush at the tall swaying branches. The sky was pale blue overhead, cloudless and cold as new winter, meeting the great purple and grey ranges far off into the distance. The pale garron tossed tousled its head and snorted, picking new scents from the wind bracing the land; Myrell ran her long fingers along his neck and he was silent. Beside her, a tall, fair haired man stood, thick woollen cloaks pulled close against his narrow frame, his steady gaze set across the low lands below.

“I hear of your brother’s return,” the fair-haired man spoke, “he rides in from the west to meet the Sir Dyron.”

Myrell grimaced, “He is Lord now, Lord Dyron. The west gave him a title when he murdered his Arnish wife and her brother,” she paused, “do you remember them, Castelleo?”

“Yes,” he replied, and then there was a pause that followed. “Persecution is more widespread here, more accepted than it once was.”

Myrell nodded without looking at him, “I think you are right, we do not want our children growing up with this in their ears, to treat at as such common news.”

Castello’s smile was long and easy, “you are still a child, Myrell. Both you and I have grown up with it, only never before has it been in New Dekonia.” The blonde man sighed, and shifted his eyes to the girl, deciding it best to change the topic. “As I was saying, your Lord father meets Lord Dyron at the Grey Hall. There is word that your elder brother has not returned from Myrash.”

Myrell smiled faintly. She remembered her eldest brother Luthen before the March. She was but a child then, and he no more than twelve. Once, he had been their father’s favourite son, before all this started, before the war had come and before the young began to die before the old. Many things had changed since, but one was sensible not to dwell on the past.

“I’ll take you to Dredport, Castelleo, it is not long out of my way,” she said after the talk was done, but the blonde man declined, as Myrell knew he would. Neither two ever rode anything but abreast together. Myrell thought for a while before she left him, and dismounted where before she preferred to stay mounted. She was hardly an inch shorter than Castelleo, who was a tall Nethel from the North; her hair hung in free, a few strands in thin plats to the small of her back, tied with feathers that flew in the breeze as she rode.

“Come to the Pretoon with me on third day,” she said. “It would be good for Albany to see you again,” she smiled. Castelleo laughed half-heartedly and sighed, shaking his head slightly. Albany was an old friend of theirs, once, when they were younger, although Castelleo was still older than both of them, they had travelled through Myrash, New Dekonia, and the six lands of the High Kingdoms. Six years ago, when Castelleo left for the Highlands and Myrell on the ships to Whent, Albany had stayed behind, and grown up.

“I cannot. Albany is somewhat different these days, I know,” he replied.

“He is married it is true, with two sons and a third child on the way, or perhaps a fourth, but he asks of you when I visit. Rhyanne is not such a burden to him as you might think, he is nothing but more grounded than we ever thought him to be.”

“Yes, he has changed much, Albany,” but then there was a pause and Myrell smiled for she knew she had him. Her garron stamped his hoof into the soil and the young woman turned to him and laughed, running her hand along his flanks as she quickly mounted him again.

“Brey grows impatient at simple wandering of us humans,” she smiled and calmed him with her hand on his neck.

“I trust we will see you at Pretoon then, on the third day from now.”

Castelleo smiled, “Goodbye little crow,” he said after her, as she kicked her feet into the horses’ flanks and disappeared down into the grasslands below.

Castelleo folded his arms across his chest and set his hard grey eyes toward the sun, high and useless on a pale green sea. It was a bitter late summer, and an even colder winter to follow a cheerless autumn. Leaves did not ripen and fall in the south; they rotted on branches and were lost in the snow. There was no beauty in these autumns, not like back home, he thought.

The grasslands here were vast, but equally as imposing were the forests, which, far off to the left, stretched to the distant mountain pass, and, from there, all the way to the sea. New Dekonia was certainly a place of wanderlust, but it was also a lonely place, and not lonely in the ways the north was. Here, there was just emptiness, and yet the land was owned. For miles and miles, nothing, not so much as a tree dotted the open grasslands. And inversely, in the forest, only the occasional river spared a traveller its dark depths. This was Myrell’s land, he thought, and she belonged to it. She was young, and yet had experienced much. Perhaps if she had been a villager, things would have been very different, but she was the only daughter of one of the High Kingdoms Lords, Lord Haylen; King in the saddle. She was strong as a child, Lord Haylen had taken care of that, and also taken care that she could ride, fight and travel as any man could, although such goes the custom in New Dekonia. There was more to the little crow, however, for one was rarely standing on the surface. As Castelleo walked, a long shadow fell across the grasses; he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, and whistled low and long.

Issen stood rigid as stone before the window, a large square cut into the parapet, his steady dark eyes scanning the flat desert expanse. It would be cold tonight, he thought. The nights changed the desert so severely, from the searing heat of midday where little could be done but sit and wait till dusk, to the terrible chills that accompanied darkness.

“Sir?”

Issen turned to face the girl, smiling, though his expression suggesting he was miles away.

“Yes, Delora?” his voice was deep and soothing.

“Lord Galmod is here to see you, sir,” she replied, stepping from the doorway. Issen sighed, and turned briefly back to the window as he picked up his glass, and drained the remnants. He walked the distance of the balcony to the doorway to where the girl stood, the outline of her slim body visible through the thin white dress; he smiled at her, pausing.

“Thankyou, Delora,” his hand brushed her cheek lightly, and then he handed her the glass.

Lord Galmod stood in the common room, his thick red beard catching the soft yellow lighting that bounced from the firegates off the walls. The room was large, with two long bearskin couches situated around a large hearth. The two men stood.

“I haven’t time for games, Issen,” the barbudos frowned as Issen appeared with a playing card between his two fingers. Issen smiled coyly.

“Ah, but Lord Galmod, this is not just a mere card,” he flipped it over in his fingers as he moved towards the hearth, not looking at the other man. Then he turned sharply, “this card… is a special card, this card, is King, he is the King of Diamonds, and look…” Issen bent the card, and then tore it, throwing it in the flames. “Why can I do that?” he asked sharply. “Why can I throw that King in the flames, tell me, Lord Galmod?” Issen did not wait for a reply. “Because I am Lord General, because I am the overlord of the King, I rule the King, understand!” Issen was yelling now, his dark, brooding eyes fiery and violent. Lord Galmod dropped his eyes. “That means, my Lord Galmod, you do not fuck around with my orders, is that clear?”

There was a long silence before the other man replied, and his voice, though considerably less dominating, seemed encased with hatred.

“Very clear, sir.”

Issen stared at him, then the smile crept back across his face, “good.” He called for Delora.

“Delora will take to the dining room,” he said, about to leave, then, turning back to the other man “oh, and tell your men they now have a new commander.”