The Winds of Crowns and Wolves Read Free Page A

inside he saw the rest of his town congregated.
    The hall was made of the finest oak trees
that could be found in the valley. Generations earlier, the men of
the community had banded together to craft perfectly shaped and cut
logs to use as the frame of the building. Inside, the smell of
burning wood and a fresh roast infiltrated Neach’s nostrils, as he
headed for the table where his mother and brother sat.
    “Welcome home, man of the village,” his
mother offered sweetly, “we are all very proud of you.”
    His demeanor was always softer and kinder
when he spoke to his mother. He responded to her statement with a
faint smile, as to not show weakness. As he looked around the hall,
the jubilation was running rampant around every orifice of the
building. Some of the men, who had been drinking since the middle
of the day, were singing songs of battles past, and the women they
had been with. Others sat quietly with a bemused smile upon their
face, as they watched the festivities commence.
    The hall was decorated in a lavish, at least
for their community, display of precious metals, which danced as
the flame of the fire licked at their precipices. An extravagant
occurrence, fit for the new gentlemen, as they began a new life
filled with hard work.
    Neach rose from his table, after indulging
himself, and headed to get fresh air outside of the hall.
    The air was crisp and cold, as the winter
chill seeped deep into his bones. He walked out, toward the bridge
he came in over, and sat down at the bank of the river.
    It was times such as these that Neach longed
for. A silent time where he could ponder life’s greatest mysteries,
by himself, next to the solace of the flowing stream below him: he
embraced it. It was as if time stopped, and all that existed was
himself and the beauty surrounding.
    The cold river cut through the base of the
hill, like a wrinkle etched into the face of a weary old man. It
bent and stretched, narrowed and expanded, and the rustic lack of
homogeneity made him feel at home. He had always felt as if he were
different from the rest of his family. A different wiring of his
brain, he presumed. But with a limited knowledge of anything to
prove that, he muddled through his day to day life, in search of an
answer of some sort.
    As he sat on the river bank, he heard a
rustling in the brush next to him. It was not uncommon for an
animal to hide in the brush before scurrying away, but tonight’s
temperature was cold, and most animals had gone into a form of
hibernation.
    He ignored the sound and fell back into the
deep thoughts he had only recently concluded. Before he could drown
in his own mental riptide, he heard the rustling again, this time
much closer to where he sat. With a quizzical look upon his face,
Neach stood up and ventured toward the brush.
    Curious, yet anxious, he approached the
brush and picked up a stick he found nearby.
    When the nature of the beast that lurked
inside of that brush showed its true face, he realized the futility
that the stick he held in his hand offered.
    Nestled in the edge of the brush, asleep,
was a full grown grey wolf. With a gasp and a stutter step
backward, the realization of the situation struck Neach like a full
grown man running head on.
    What was he to do? He couldn’t let this
majestic, yet carnivorous, creature maintain a home so close to his
community. It was his duty as a man to rid the town of the beast.
After recovering his senses and mental clarity, he crept toward the
sleeping wolf. As he got within arm’s length of it, it opened its
eyes. Large orange orbs stared back into Neach as if they were two
microcosms of the very sun which gave the Earth life.
    With a disgruntled growl and a calm
ascendance to its feet, the wolf slowly exited the brush. Armed
with only a stick, Neach was unsure what it was that he should do
next. Out of instinct, he dropped the stick.
    The wolf turned slowly toward him, and
instead of a menacing growl, let go an ear piercing howl