The Winds of Crowns and Wolves Read Free

sound of a lute
being played traveled up to the two men, and caressed their ears
with memories of the summer, which had passed so quickly. Summer in
the valley was a lovely time filled with bountiful harvests, music
and the love of the townspeople on a nightly basis.
    As the music continued in the valley, Neach
stood up beside his father and grasped the axe in both hands. With
a silent nod of approval, Asgall watched as his son made his way
toward the large yew they had been sitting under.
    With a defiant thud, the first strike of the
axe bore itself into the tree and the ritual began. It was
customary for the father to begin a period of prayer and not
conclude it until the tree had been completely dislodged from the
ground.
    Swing after swing, thud after thud, the
brilliant old yew swayed in the light winter breeze. Its branches
looked feeble and it bore no fruit, but its trunk was thick. This
tree had likely stood in this spot for thousands of years and
today, Neach would claim it as his own.
    Nearly half an hour had passed before the
poignant sound of cracking wood filled the air like an angry
collection of bees. In an instant, the tree went from a tall
standing bastion of significance, to a destitute heap of logs. It
crashed to the ground with relentless fervor, and it could be heard
around the valley. A dull roar emanated from the town below.
    He had done it. As he walked over to the
tree, he used his father’s axe to claim a branch off of it for
remembrance. The years that had come before had seen this tree used
as a form of shade by weary travelers and the townspeople.
    Branch and axe in hand, with sweat building
up around his brow, Neach looked up at his father who had tears in
his eyes.
    “ It took you that long to
cut down that little old tree?” he choked through tears with a sort
of comical cynicism.
    His good natured spirit was refreshing to
Neach. Not only had he gained the respect of the community, but he
had gained the respect of his father. Asgall embraced his son in
elation, and they walked toward the town.
    The valley created a basin near the edge of
the hill where a small river had cut through and left its mark in
the landscape. As the two men reached the bridge that would connect
them with Spleuchan Sonse, a crowd of people gathered at the end of
the walkway. Looks of joy spread across their faces, as Neach
raised the branch he had removed from the tree in his right hand,
and the axe in his left.
    Like a calm, serendipitous, weathered, old
man, Neach took the praise in stride. He strolled across the bridge
with an air of confidence so thick, that it nearly suffocated those
who awaited him on the other side. Yet this was exactly what they
wanted, a man to show his superiority in the face of adversity and
come out as the victor.
    A new found glory resonated within the very
foundation of his body, and a feeling he had never experienced
before permeated his bones. Could it be that he had already been
jaded at such a young age? He wished, in a strange series of
events, that the effect of this event were more lasting and
profound. The feeling, which he had never felt before, was emptier
than anything previously felt.
    But the façade was erected, if not for the
benefit of the townspeople, for his father’s own sanity. He could
not have him see that this moment, which he had looked forward to
his entire life, had culminated with an unsatisfying crescendo.
Neach had a mind which was far older than it let on.
    Upon their arrival, a collection of men
carrying torches knelt down in front of the gates, allowing Neach
the ability to pass through the aisle they had created.
    He treated it as if he was supremely
impressed by the extravagance of the events which were unfolding
before him, but in his mind he knew that he was not content.
    He entered the town hall, which, the night
previously, had housed the gentlemen of the town in a festivity of
mead and food. Neach walked into the hall accompanied by his
father, and