The Eyes of King Ronan
Brian D. Holland
(Genre: Fantasy)
(Originally published in Gryphonwood - Vol. 2 Issue 1 - Fall 2005)
With his lovely Queen seated gracefully at his side, Ronan, the King of the Orchan Dinlards, looked down at the village below from the edge of Gorn.
“You must leave for a while, Fleeza, my darling,” he said, removing his sight from the clustered township of Ertra. He peered deeply into the misty eyes of his Queen, reflecting for a moment on her beauty, and how it still had the ability to awe him; her thick, gold mane drooped pleasingly between her soft, silvery wings. Momentarily comforted, he then frowned, and spoke again. “I must stay and face the looming aggression. It is only right.”
“But they will surely come and kill you, my husband,” she said, her eyes swelling with tears. Moving closer to the companion she’d loved since very young, she laid her head upon his shoulder and softly wept.
“I will do my best to avoid such a demise,” he added bluntly, concealing his weary expression from her view. He knew she was right, for a Dinlard to dwell near the edge of Gorn at sunset became easy prey for those who roamed the hillside. While her head was resting upon his shoulder still, her delicate frame encompassed within his arms, the King signaled for his guards to approach. The two soldiers stood on either side of the royal carriage almost immediately.
“You shall depart, my love,” he said, gesturing to the guards to help her board the royal carriage. “I will come for you … in this life or the next.” It has to be this way, he thought woefully to himself. He then nodded his head.
The sentries immediately spread their wings and departed. The silk-blanketed chariot soared magically between them, through the crisp, cool air of the early evening. The King watched it move further and further away, distancing itself from him. Soon enough, only the blood red sky was seen above the greater, distant mountains. From his chair of stone atop Gorn Mountain, where he’d often sit and pray to the Arsinian Gods during daylight hours, he once again looked down at the valley below and into the village of Ertra. It always presented itself as such a peaceful place. In comparison to the dismal terrain that surrounded it, Ertra was a place of stunning splendor. For ages the Ertranians had it all; a paradise of wealth, power, and unlimited resources. They ruled over the so-called inferior races of the planet Arsinia, those different from them, and were the self-proclaimed chosen society of the Arsinian Gods.
To many, they were a perfect race.
But King Ronan saw them through his own eyes.
As many before them, the Ertranians hunted their food. They enjoyed the meat of other creatures, especially the meat found in the land of Orcha. The Orchan Dinlards, unfortunately, were inferior in strength to the powerful village dwellers below. They were winged mountain natives, simple, yet cheerful and sociable. They ate the fruit of the Menolyptus tree; a red, yellow, and green crop, plentiful on the mount of Gorn. They weren’t of the carnivorous type, and found the ways of the Ertranians to be vicious and murderous. Their small, weak limbs, along with a mild temperament, rendered them no match to the physically aggressive hunters. At dusk and late into the evening, the killers would often raid their mountain village, attacking and abducting at will. The Ertranians were quick, and could easily catch a Dinlard before one could spread his wings and take flight. Male, female, or little one, it made no difference to them; they’d cut them down on land or in the sky with their mighty swords and weapons of fire. They would then carry their carcasses, dead or alive, back to their village and feast. The meat would be grilled over huge furnaces or stewed in vast boiling pots. The Ertranians acted with joy and without remorse after their slaughter, for they considered the Dinlards there for the taking, like fruit from the vine. The Dinlard race, reduced to no more than a few thousand, was declining more and more every evening.
King Ronan could withstand it no more.
Alone atop the hillside at that moment, for he'd have it no other way, the other Dinlards were resting for the evening, and were hiding as well, as the twilight curfew was upon them. Immersed in deep thought, he gazed out at the early evening sky. As to emulate the happenings on Arsinia, the Gods had colored the heavens a bright golden-red, rendering Ronan quite aware of the episode that was to occur. He would neither retreat nor hide from the savages any longer, and he didn’t care how the Gods felt about it either. If they approved of the murderous ways of the savage Ertranians, then they were not Gods to adulate. They will be his enemy as well.
I will die for my people, even if it appears a meaningless death, he decided, peering down the hillside.
Suddenly, to his right, Ronan caught a glimpse of an uphill climber. A sharp weapon clenched between his teeth, his powerful fists grasped at the purple wolloyo bushes, pulling him closer, through the amethyst shaded growth of the hillside—and toward Ronan’s seat.
The hunter must be in a state of elation, just to see an exposed Dinlard on the hilltop at dusk, he thought.
Ronan neither moved nor flinched.
He readied himself for what no other Dinlard had previously attempted. For the reason he’d sent his sweet Fleeza away, so her loving eyes wouldn’t see her husband partake in such an act, he prepared to attack.
The hunter will be the hunted.
The Ertranian may be the better hunter and the stronger warrior, but the act of surprise will be Ronan’s strength. His eyes, as sharp as the blade in the Ertranian’s mouth, watched as the hunter neared. In no time at all, the perpetrator was mere feet from him. He could see the intense stare in his eyes, an expression stimulated by his lust for slaughter, his taste for blood and butchery. Quiet as the passing breeze, Ronan readied to pounce. He sensed the hunter’s precision and synchronized his own with it. Slowly lifting his wings, he then spread his webbed claws, his thick nails extending outward and down. He knew what to do next, as he’d studied the deadly vultures in the Black Desert of Remula.
Ronan leaped from his seat and landed smack upon the back of the hunter!
His thick, pointed nails burrowed deep into his skin, as hooks into meat.
“Take that, you evil swine!” he hollered.
The perpetrator howled, loudly, as the attack was entirely unexpected, just as Ronan had planned. Reaching clumsily behind himself, the hunter was able to gouge Ronan’s face with his knife. He then attempted to turn himself around, to face Ronan and to get a hold of him. Knowing this action to be his defeat, Ronan quickly yanked his claws from the man’s back, and then lashed them into his neck, deeply, squeezing both sides with all his might.
The Ertranian fell silent.
Just as the wriggling body went limp beneath that of Ronan’s, a sound came from the direction of a distant wolloyo bush. Another hunter eventually came out from behind the growth.
He looked at Ronan, and Ronan at him.
The individual appeared terrified, an expression Ronan wasn’t used to seeing on the face of an Ertranian. He began backing away, distancing himself from Ronan and the dead hunter. He then ran for his life, tripping and falling down the hillside as he did. Ronan looked on, half in amazement and half in amusement, until the Ertranian was no longer in view. He then peered down at the dead hunter before him, for a time, in disbelief of what had just transpired.
“I have killed another creature,” he said aloud. Though he knew he had no other choice, he still couldn’t believe what he had done. Victory was his, though he didn’t feel victorious. Slowly lifting himself from the carcass, he staggered gingerly over uneven ground and back to his hillside throne. He plopped into the seat and gave a weakened sigh.
“It’s good that my darling Fleeza can’t see me now,” he said, realizing that his face had been slashed and was now dripping with blood, and wings bent and crushed. Peering out into the night, he saw a deeper crimson sky than earlier. He was enthralled by the view, as he wasn’t used to being on the hillside this late into the night. And the lamps of the colossal village of Ertra brightened the hillside before him.
“They’ll be coming soon,” he said knowingly.
He sat and waited, dazed and in a state of exhaustion, his mind wandering in and out of coherence. He saw Fleeza’s face in the deep, dark sky, for once again their eyes met; their gaze penetrated and became as one. He saw his people, the Orchan Dinlards, once plentiful, happy and safe. Throughout the heavens, which had become dark and colorless behind illusion, he saw images of love everywhere.
Suddenly, he looked down on a different scene altogether. The hunters were approaching by the hundreds. Ronan could see them all, as the village lights illuminated the mount of Gorn where they climbed. Upon their faces were expressions of malevolence and hatred. He heard voices as well, for they shouted as they progressed. He knew they wanted to kill him above all else.
“What kind of a monster cuts down Ertranians?” one inquired belligerently.
“We shall kill the murderous creature!” another hollered.
“Death to the violent Dinlard!”
They stormed the side of the mountain as vengeful warriors, infuriated by the recent harm that had come to one of their own.
Ronan gazed up once again and pleaded to the images in the sky. Suddenly, mysterious gates were exposed to him there. He watched, only momentarily, as they opened. He then peered downward again, and abruptly threw himself into the oncoming slaughter. The attack ended quickly, as cowards always outnumber.
To many, they were a perfect race.
But as he gazed down at them from the heavens, King Ronan saw them through his own eyes.
The End