The Gonzo Wolf

Prince Connor Wrath is beyond bored with his royal lifestyle. Receiving nothing but the most mundane tasks in the name of his kingly father, and even less respect than the court jester, he dreams of a life beyond the land of Lynnwood. There’s only one catch: The gods of old have forbade travel past the harbors and inlets of the only land he’s ever known. Who are these gods, where have they gone, and why would they insist on such a questionable boundary? Connor is determined to be the first who defies the laws of the disappeared deities.

What follows is IP of Gonzo Wolf Productions LLC & Chad Cloud-Miller

Wrath’s Lament

by Rev. Dare Cloud

Chapter One

3.0

To the depths with this rain. It feels as if I’ve had precipitation pelting me in the eye since the day I was born. It makes it damn hard to concentrate on a target. Thus is life in this cursed land.

Me and the lads have been standing here in this miserable downpour for what my tired bones insist is an eternity now. We futilely knocked upon the Wall of Graves hoping we could roust some poor soul and just get this over with. No such luck, it appears. Everyone is off celebrating piss-poor sky gods or hiding in fear from the twenty soldiers I brought with me to oversee business.

Lord Sert of Quimper was placed in charge over the fishing and hunting duties for the kingdom long before my birth, but whispers among the commoners claim he’s been cutting back on supplies while expecting the same payment for his services. This is a tool used by comfortable men when they believe they’re owed more, usually when someone is chirping delusions into their ears. Sometimes it’s a talkative spot in the bed beyond the home fires, drumming the man up to ill-deserved greatness. Most times that particular spot is wrong. This happens to be one of those times. Did he not think the Wrath family would discover his deception? Has he not witnessed what happens to men who throw a kink in the grinder repeatedly? The same occurrence took place down south in De Haro Village a mere year ago and it was dealt with via a simple replacement. The same body, different head; my blade was the tool which solved it all.

I told them, though. I told them from the very beginning it would come to this, but nobody listened. I should be used to it by now. Nobody listens to the son of the king. Well, at least not me. They have no problem paying attention to my big brother and the words that leave his mouth. I can’t help that I’m the younger of us. Maybe it’s because he’s next in line for the throne and has a better face. That would make me want to get in line very quickly if I was a maiden with dreams of a royal makeover!

Still, Lord Chelios Sert decided to grow a pair at the last minute and stand up to royal decree. It’s a lost cause, really. His tiny militia of fisherman and ranchers are no match for the royal army. We’ll kill two or three and the rest will surrender once they see blood flow through the streets. This is the way it happened with the farmers in De Haro last year and the year before that. Someone always insists on getting their balls in a bind and trying their hand at challenging my father. They forget he never fights his own battles and sends the swords of his men to do his bidding. Memories are short in Lynnwood, that’s for sure. They should sew that motto on the banners in Castle Blanchet as a reminder. Maybe a few here and there to cover up those dreary walls. Welcome to Lynnwood, where half the princes have nice faces, and the peasants have short memories!

“What in the depths is taking Lord Sert so damn long to reply?” called out General Canaby. “Did they have to send a runner all the way to the Cliffs of Sasser for a straight answer?”

“No, General,” called back one of the three men from atop the wall. “He’s tucked inside his bed in Quimper Village same as everyone else at this hour. I don’t suppose there’s any way we could discuss our woes another time. Perhaps during hours of daylight?”

Damn fool guards and their useless wit. A man gets all high and mighty when there’s ten feet of stacked rock between their throats and the blades of their enemies. I catch the image of General Canaby shaking his head beneath his polished helmet. He’s obviously disappointed in how the situation is developing. I truly don’t blame him.

When my father tasked me with joining the general’s guard on this mission, I didn’t really argue. Granted, I knew it was raining and nasty about, but I needed a spot of adventure. I didn’t have pressing plans aside from sitting in my chamber doing what men do in their free time. This quest is obviously the most productive of the activities. What can I say? I’m a man with goals. Bards don’t sing songs of solitary self-service, but my head disagrees. I hear angels sing. It’s my hard-earned opinion that bards should create more melodies about men in their solitude.

“Prince Connor,” came the general, but I was too deep into my own mind to acknowledge the beckoning. I heard him, but I didn’t want to answer. I knew the question on his tongue. He came once more, using my full name.

“Prince Connor Wrath! Do you think I could bother you to remove your good ears from your rear-end so I could ask you a question or two?”

I knew it. General Zellot Canaby is not much for jest, especially on the eve of battle. He can’t help poking fun at me when the chance arises. He’s never been nice, to be honest. He’s one of the first faces I remember from early years, and none of those were ever smiling. Not once. He even has good teeth for a military man, yet he refuses to smile. I don’t get it, not one bit. I’m always up for a good joke, more often than a threat or serious tale of despair. Most men just can’t manage my sense of humor. They think I’m not taking them seriously when I return their requests with wit. Why stop now? I’m all armored up and soaking wet from head to toe, ready to remove  heads from anyone who opposes me over the next half hour.

They’ll surrender before then. I know they will.

“Yes, General,” I replied. “It’s just as big as you’ve heard and twice as pretty, but that’s not important. The only person I ever plan to please with it is myself!”

General Canaby shook his head in disgust, but he should’ve known it was coming. Not once have I ever replied with sincerity. Never. Same as how he’s never smiled at me. I’d be willing to make him a deal if he were interested. I’d answer his inquiries with integrity if he smiled while inquiring. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Depths, it sounds like a fair deal!

“Choose a runner to go back to Blanchet and have them inform King Collus of the situation. Apparently Lord Sert isn’t up for negotiations tonight and will need a proper spanking.”

“As you wish, General,” I agreed.

There was no point in toying with the man much longer. Sure, I’ve taken it further. Much further to be precise, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear his bitching and belly aching on this most rainy of nights on the edge of battle. I wasn’t nervous. I’ve taken my fair share of souls, but there’s always the chance tables could turn. Some lucky bastard could claim mine instead. Gods, could you imagine? What Depths would be brought upon the opposition if they could take the head of Prince Connor Wrath of Blanchet? That would certainly be the battle to top all battles.

I pointed toward the man closest to me to come hither and deliver the message to my father. It’s not like it mattered. The old man was just going to inform him that we are to begin cutting heads until the kneeling begins. That’s the way it always goes. No negotiation. No bending. Straight to the head cutting. Easy for a king, really. He’s not the one who must endure the vibrations of a blade through flesh as it travels through your wrists and into the heart. I feel it every time. I often wonder if the gods have magical devices sewn within me to keep count of every soul I’ve freed from the Mewes to the Ishiro. What if every life I’ve taken is one subtracted from my own? Is it silly to ponder such things? No one knows for sure. If that’s the case, how many do I have left? What prize awaits me for topping the board?

I can feel the frigid rain collected in my outstretched arm brace pour down my chest between armor and skin. The cold doesn’t let up as it dives deeper into the unknown regions of sweat and legends. It’s a brief spot of refreshment for whatever has gone awry. To tell the truth, I hate wearing armor just as much as rain. Combining them on the same night? My visible exasperated exhalations should make my feelings abundantly clear. I’m a prince, after all. What am I even doing here?

“Send a message to my father The King,” I instructed. “Let him know that the Wall of Graves isn’t friendly on this evening and that Lord Chelios Sert and his militia of peasants are nowhere to be found. Ask his instructions and bring his wishes back to me. Make haste!”

“Yes, your highness!” the knight obeyed with a tip of his helmet. I watched as he slimed his way through mud and slippery stone, staining his pure white steed as he mounted the beast. He disappear into the trees with a well-timed flash of lightning. It won’t take him long to reach the castle. With luck, those presently missing hunters and fishermen won’t arrive in his absence. The extra sword would be nice in battle if it came to that. I don’t believe I’m even in the mood to fight anymore. I’d just blame the weather and call it a night if it were up to me. I mean, it is, as of this moment, but I’d be in deep trouble once I reached father’s court. The look from Killian would be worse.

I’m not even sure why I bother trying to impress my older brother anymore. I looked up to him as a child, but those days are gone. More like the general than me, he doesn’t have a sense of humor to save his life if necessary. Sure, he’s laughed at times, and I’ve even seen him smile when the occasion called for it, but it’s difficult for him to take a joke. The future king must always be on his best behavior and stony-faced. You can’t just let the other lords and plain folk see you giggling as you dance down the street with your nose in the air. You’d look like an idiot! Well, I can imagine that I look idiotic when I do such things, but no one is keeping score for Prince Connor. Two Wrath men would need to perish for me to become king, and I don’t believe that will happen.

I’m simply fine with being a prince. I don’t have the same responsibilities as my father or brother, and I don’t have to fish or shovel waste like the rest. I plainly AM, I guess. I sleep well beyond the rising of the sun, I take my share of maidens, I drink way more than my share of wine, and everyone else along the Sea of Torrence can kiss my shiny, armored buttocks; including my father, brother, and that damned General Canaby. He’s supposed to already do that, but he doesn’t respect me in the slightest, and no one forces him, either. My new mother, the most recent queen, treats me well though, and I’m nice to her in return. She can’t help it that the king chose her among everyone else to marry when my true mother died. Still, I like her, we have a lot in common. Way more than anyone would imagine. I can’t wait until morning to tell her of all the madness my father put me through by sending me on this dingy mission in the middle of this precipitous night. She’ll continue to cut him off for sure, and he’s getting too old to force the issue. She may as well have a catapult down there. Deadly from a distance, that woman. My kind, for sure.

Some would say it’s strange to daydream about such things, but it was better than counting raindrops as they pelted my helmet upon this abomination of an evening. Queen S’Varick is five whole years younger than I and the only daughter of Lord Dreek Ferrell of De Haro. Father knew I’d had eyes on her for some time before taking her as my mother’s replacement. It must be nice to be a king, pumping babies into someone thirty years your junior who’ll be nipping at his toes until reaching court or military age. Luckily, my father doesn’t have enough arrows in the old quiver to ruin that good lady’s figure. She’s too beautiful to be tarnished by pregnancy. This brings me to my next line of thought. I needed something to take the discomfort of this downpour away.

Do I love my father? Of course I do! All young men love their fathers regardless of what they say to their mates after a few pints of ale. Do I approve of his methods as a ruler? Absolutely not. The old man is entirely too high strung and could use a good pipe or two of Gods’ Crop to take off the edge. I’m sure he believes himself to be beyond such things since it would anger the gods nice and proper. Everything he says and does is for the sake of the gods, and that imaginary lot hadn’t set foot in Lynnwood since before my birth.

Many elders on the council claim the gods return to this land once every generation, but those tales have become sparse as time trudged forward. I’m not even sure if I believe the strange stories of the senile folk who claim to have met such beings. Apparently, they pop up every once in a while, to tell us all what we should and shouldn’t do and then disappear until after the next generation is born. It’s convenient when the only people who claim to have met them are closest to the coffin. The journey to the other side is enticing by that point. Personally, I’m not buying it. I don’t care whose money I’m using for the purchase.

All I’ve been told since I was a child is not to do this or that because it will anger the gods on high. The anglers are not allowed to move their boats beyond the Kissing Fools or Talia Harbor lest it anger them. Something about angry fish who seek vengeance for the plucking of their smaller brethren for our own nourishment. Even as a child growing up in Blanchet, I was not allowed to swim any farther out than the edges of Dark Hills Bay or it would set off the entities in which my father placed so much faith. Sunrise to sunset, I would sit atop the castle and long for whatever lay beyond the horizon of Lynnwood. In all my twenty-five years, not once have I met anyone who journeyed beyond my birth land. It’s as though the birds who fly east over the Sea of Torrance would suddenly appear at your back as they flew from the west. Rubbish, but frightening rubbish. This is not a safe conversation for one to have within one’s own mind without drowning it in ale first. That was what I planned to do as soon as the soldier returned from Blanchet.

Still, what lies beyond the evening sun, past the waters of my home? There’s only one way to know and, if it indeed angered our rulers on high, perhaps they’d appear to teach me a lesson. I would be doing the land a public service since there aren’t many left in Blanchet, Quimper, or De Haro who believe in such nonsense.

My thoughts were bothered by the approaching sound of hooves on the rain-beaten rock. I guess it was welcomed since my erratic mind nearly had propelled me into the nearest fishing boat to solve the great mystery once and for all. I slapped my helmet with my gauntlet a few times to ignite the weathered, spent candle within my head. The last thing I needed was to think of idiotic quests with battle ahead. Greater men were killed by lesser things.

“Your Grace,” the messenger announced the royal pleasantries while dismounting his horse. “I send word from your father, The King.”

“Let me guess,” I replied, already knowing the answer. “We are to either climb or knock down the wall and drag Lord Sert before the throne kicking and screaming.”

“You are correct, your Grace,” He responded, dumfounded. “It’s almost as though the two of you are of the same mind!”

“No, soldier,” I cringed, drawing my sword to the ready. “I’ve just been living with the man since I popped out of my mother into this world with a fine hello on the tip of my tallywacker. Put two people behind the same walls for that long – watching each other eat and smelling each other’s expulsions, and you’ll begin thinking alike. Oh, and if I ever hear of you or anyone else comparing me to my father again, your fate will be no different than the unfortunate anglers of Quimper Village.”

“Yes, your Grace,” the scolded soldier apologized.

I said nothing to him from that moment on. Of course, I wasn’t mad at the man for saying such things, I just preferred to keep him on his toes. A leader, whether it be a king or a lowly prince like me, should never rub elbows with his subordinates. They must fear you if they are to obey your orders. That’s exactly what the general had done to me since I was wetting my crib. I’ll never let him know that I could sense his true nature. The land of Lynnwood needed him to be strong in times of battle and unaware that he was slipping in his old age. Speaking of which…

“General,” I called. “Let’s teach these meat dealers what happens when they hoard supplies from their king for ease of negotiations.”

            “As you wish, your Highness,” answered Canaby. “You heard the prince, men. The king wants this to be handled thoroughly and quickly. Take the wall!”

            I turned back toward the men to let them know they should follow my orders into battle, but my father pulled a traditional “Wrath” move, as I’ve grown to call it. Out from the tree line walked an additional eighty or so armored soldiers to join the twenty men already soaked to the bone at the base of the Wall of Graves. As though they’d rehearsed this movement a dozen times, they attached iron hooks to the ends of ropes and began their ascent. Taking notice, the original men who’d accompanied the General and myself began bashing the wall’s gate with alternating battering rams. Now was a race to see who’d get bloody first, the men on the ground or the climbers upon the wall.

            Screams came from both simultaneously, making it difficult to name the victor in my mind’s contest. It’s not like it mattered; no one was winning prizes for doing the King’s bidding. A dry place to sleep and bellies full of intoxicants were more than fair compensation in the royal guard. No one ever asked for more, so nothing was added to the job description. I was merely the go-between, a prince who would never be king and a scribe who refused to claim the quill responsible for such addendums. I wasn’t even sure why I was here. Did the old man hope a toothless goat with a pitchfork would get lucky and be the end of me? I wouldn’t put that past our lord King Wrath. Not for a moment.

Live or die on this night, either way. It was time for my think-box to end its bickering and make good on one of the few things in which I excel. I lowered the visor from my helmet’s helm and introduced my blade to the chilled air from its sleepy sheath.

            “No worries, my love,” I stated while placing a kiss upon her sharpened steel. “You’ll be warmed by crimson storms soon enough.”

I was wrong by thinking this was to be a short battle, if even a true battle at all. A mound of gutted men formed as I advanced into the village of Quimper as rivulets of blood flowed toward the lowest part of the Mewes inlet. I’m sure the fish would feed on such sickness as soon as it hit the water. Any fisher who still drew breath were missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

Oh, to be a fisher at this moment. I said I was good at taking heads. Not once did I say I cared for it. At least not when commanded by one who got his underclothes in a bunch beneath his royal robes. Not a single person had done wrong by me throughout this fiasco. Besides, I hate the taste of fish. Tiny bones. Annoying tiny bones.

A dozen more slashes of the soldiers’ swords and the remaining resistance fell to their knees for mercy. Now this is the portion of our imaginary conflict where I would bless them with this request as a teaching tool against future uprisings. Unfortunately, my voice was nothing more than a formality. The general and his men were following the orders of an old relic who didn’t stir from beneath his weighted pelts when my messenger arrived. What just happened before me was discussed over a hearty dinner days ago in my absence. My brother and future king, Prince Killian, always tells me that father likes for me to feel important from time to time. I’m officially calling royal shenanigans. That man took a chance on my death tonight; I’m certain of it. Hopefully, he won’t be too upset when he realizes his wish didn’t come true.

I hate this land, that castle, and I hate my king. I know there must be something better beyond the instructions of our gods, and surely I’m not the first man in the history of Lynnwood to crave them. Save the dream for another night, young Prince Wrath. Same dream, different night. I despise more than I’ve realized before having this conversation with myself on the blood-soaked streets of Quimper. No worries, this rain will wash it all away by morning.

To the depths with it all.

Chapter Two Coming Soon…