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  THE HUNT OF THE KING

  SYMPHONY OF MADNESS SAGA

  BOOK 1

  The Hunt of the King

  Symphony of Madness Saga – Book 1

  Copyright © 2019 by Sergio Ronceros

  All rights reserved.

  Map by Sergio Ronceros

  Cover Art by Sergio Ronceros

  Cover Image by Casey Yee under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International License

  All characters, names, places and incidents appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  A Great Shadow in the Sky

  CHAPTER 2

  Messages of Past and Present

  CHAPTER 3

  Harsh Decisions and Prophetic Dreams

  CHAPTER 4

  The Flaming-Red Steed

  CHAPTER 5

  A Bitter Sweet Farewell

  CHAPTER 6

  From a Foggy Scree to a Dark Forest

  CHAPTER 7

  Five for the Golden Road

  CHAPTER 8

  Memories of a Coward

  CHAPTER 9

  Finding Desires to Live

  CHAPTER 10

  The Hunt of the King

  CHAPTER 11

  The Forest of the Spirits

  CHAPTER 12

  Logic Against Madness

  CHAPTER 13

  Darkness and Nightmares

  CHAPTER 14

  The Frozen Glade

  CHAPTER 15

  The Winter of the Forest

  CHAPTER 16

  A Forge at the End of the Tunnel

  CHAPTER 17

  A Boy’s Wishes and Dreams

  CHAPTER 18

  Tests of Life

  THE END

  CHAPTER 1

  A Great Shadow in the Sky

  It flew way over their heads, and far away into the distance, but the fear and terror it evoked in their hearts was beyond measure.

  The inhabitants of the small town of Litten—or Littians, as they had come to call themselves with the flow of the years—had woken up that day with the intention of carrying on with their customary activities—working the steel, milking the cows, feeding the horses: The same tasks they had been performing for the past two hundred years, ever since the foundation of the town. Nothing could have made them think that their normal routines would abruptly change, in particular after the eminent feast they had celebrated the previous night. Yet, there they were, over fifty of them, every single one staring at the morning sky: Some with curiosity, others with apprehension, everyone with fear.

  The sun had been shining for many hours when Sinod woke up. It had been a dreamless night, barely interrupted by the senseless uproars of the last few drunken men leaving the feast. He looked into the ceiling, flicking his hair out of his eyes, while the sweet taste of wine in his mouth reminded him of what had happened the night before. Men and women, old and young, everyone in Litten, had gathered in the Party Room they had built over ten years ago, after the end of the War against the East, to celebrate the end of summer.

  Celebrate, thought Sinod disdainfully. Soon, the winter would fall upon them. The streams would freeze, the harvest would perish, and the livestock would die. The inclement winds would even take the lives of some of the people who had been drinking and eating to their heart’s content the night before.

  As the gloomy morning went by, more memories started coming back to his mind: Spirited youngsters dancing avidly in the middle of the room, old silver-haired men organizing strength competitions, cheerful children chasing the few cats that had dared to venture into the chamber, and a group of just-off-the-boat sailors narrating tales to anyone willing to listen. Quite a diverse group of people they certainly were, yet all had one thing in common: The love and affection they had displayed for their guest of honor. They had saluted him with reverence and bestowed him with gifts, just like they had been doing for the last ten years, ever since he came back from the war: The only knight in town, Sir Larson Bakken.

  The shrill light of the sun started streaming through the gaps in his curtains, gracing his bed in golden. Yet he did not care for it. And neither did he care for the fact that, every couple of minutes, all light appeared to fade away, leaving his room in utter darkness. The memories kept storming his head while a pungent pain filled every inch of his body, an ache that was neither due to the late hours in which he had returned to his bed nor to a fight in which he had seen himself involved earlier in the week. The morning before the party, Sir Larson had gone into the smithy of his father demanding five swords and five daggers, his adventurous mind having decided to organize a small hunt in the Forest of the Boar, along with a group of boys he had taken as his apprentices. Sinod and his father had worked all day to fulfill the knight’s desires and, by the time they arrived at the party, the meat was already cold and the drinks scarce.

  Still, Sinod did not miss the cardinal event of the feast, the lonely reason for which he had decided to attend a celebration that had become more of a nuisance than anything else for the last five years: The official commitment between Thore Matsen and Merryn Lorenson. Both of them were twenty years old, just like Sinod, and they had known each other for life—which was not such a strange occurrence, given the small size of Litten. Still, and though the whole town had the best opinion of him, Sinod had never liked Thore, and Thore had never liked Sinod either. The boy was taller and bulkier than anyone in Litten but, just like he had grown in size, he had also grown in arrogance and petulance.

  Both his parents worked the land yet Thore had always loathed that, his true passion being hunting. So great was his fervor for the activity that he learned how to skillfully wield a sword while the rest of the boys still played with mud. His name, however, became famous in Litten when he managed to chase off a pack of wolves that threatened to enter the town and devour its sheep. The effort did not go unnoticed to Sir Larson Bakken who, from that moment on, took him as his apprentice. People started calling him the Heir of Bakken, despite the fact that the title of knight was not something that could be inherited. And, if truth needed to be told, it was the town’s mighty devotion for Sir Larson—and everything related to the knights for that matter—that had turned Thore’s commitment into the social event of the year.

  Still, Sinod did not care for him, nor for the beautiful sword he was carrying on the belt—a sword Sinod had made himself. All his attention was focused on the only person who truly seemed to shine in the room. Merryn was wearing a silk red dress and several pieces of jewelry that matched with it. Her black curly hair nearly reached her waist, falling over her back as a waterfall over a cliff, and her brown eyes glittered like diamonds. The happiness she felt was evidenced by a smile that went from ear to ear, a grin that, as a flame of ruby, made every candle in the chamber cringe in cowardice. Sinod could not help beaming while seeing her, though the sorrow he felt was hardly bearable.

  Merryn had been his neighbor since he could remember. They had played together all the time and had shared all kinds of experiences. But when Thore drove off the wolves and became the new hero in town, the eyes of every young woman in Litten turned to him. From that moment on, Sinod took on the role of the loyal friend: The one with whom she could share her joys and her sorrows, her secrets and her dreams… but never her love.

  The morning kept on going, but Sinod remained in his room, lying upon his bed, drowned in his memories. He knew his father would be upset with him for not having shown up early in the smithy, but he could not care less. His thoughts had now gone to Sir Larson. The knight had told them he would be leaving for his hunt before dawn and had als
o promised to bring the largest boar the town had ever seen to present it as a gift. He must be riding through the woods now, Sinod thought, which means I won’t have to bow my head every time I see him. But, though that last idea gave him joy, the sole thought of Sir Larson and his apprentices marching through the forest made him feel terribly sick, as if a filthy disease were freezing his stomach, and making his skin tremble, and taking ferocious bites out of his conscience.

  With some effort, Sinod pushed the knight out of his head, and, after some last futile attempts to remember the final moments of the party, he decided to get up and start with his day. He tried to dress up in haste, and as well he attempted to keep his eyes fixed on his small yet cozy room. However, more than once, his sight swayed into a silhouette looking at him from his window: The figure of a young skinny man whose face, above all, featured contrasts: The contrast of a disheveled mane of wavy jet black hair that easily concealed the small, rather elegant ears; the contrast of a pair of thick eyebrows that gave the forehead a severe appearance, one that both the beard and moustache, currently non-existent and, whenever existent, always weak and fleecy, could not grant the bony cheeks and the receding chin; and as well the contrast of a straight nose with minuscule nostrils standing above a couple of uneven cracked lips.

  For long Sinod let his eyes look into and away from this figure, a figure that he neither loved nor hated: The figure of himself. And once garbed in the shaggy black shirt and brown pants he normally used for work, he gave another look at himself in the window. His aspect seemed more consumed than normal that day, and his black eyes, to the rays of a sun fighting with the thick clouds, appeared to be giving minuscule sparkles of a feeble red. Not too long he could afford to continue looking at his image, though, for indeed it was late, and thus, and making no further effort whatsoever to make his appearance look finer, he glanced away from the window and headed down into the first floor.

  Just like every house in Litten, the first floor was one large chamber where living room, dining room, and kitchen stood closely together. Having gone down expecting some words of reprimand, he was surprised to find the house empty. His father’s absence was understandable, since he had to work at the smithy, but his mother’s truly took him aback. The only instances she had not been standing there, a smile on her face and two pieces of bread in her hands, were the day her parents died and the day Sir Larson came back to Litten from the war. A little concerned, he sat behind a tiny table lying in the middle of the dining hall and started eating some bread and cheese.

  It was bizarre. The house—and the entire town for that matter—were just too quiet. Indeed Sinod had come to enjoy the silence, as it allowed him to think and rest with ease. What he did not like about it, though, that which he loathed about it, was the solitude it usually brought along with it. What Sinod deeply detested about silence was how much it allowed him to remember the way in which loneliness, ever since what had happened five years ago, had become the most important and unavoidable part of his life. Certainly, with the pass of time, he had grown used to it, he had learned to embrace it, he had even managed to convince himself that a man like him was always meant to be alone. But still, he had been unable to entirely vanquish his conflicting emotions toward silence. He had been unable to eradicate so much that had been born after that day, so much… feelings bleak and doleful, emotions somber and woeful… and even that which lay buried deep inside his heart… even those frail rivers of hope, of fool’s hope… hope for change… hope for better days… hope…

  The food started tasting bland and vapid, thus Sinod finished it as soon as he could. Then, he took two shiny red apples and, after devouring the largest one in solely a couple of bites, he gave himself courage and mettle, as he did every day, to leave his house.

  The town of Litten stood on top of a very low foothill. On its highest point, where there had once been tall cypress trees and carpets of colorful flowers, now lay a landmark known by all as the Central Square, where several stone statues depicting men in suits of armor stood around a large obelisk made of blue rock. No one had ever told him the meaning of the monument, but he had heard that it was a symbol of the greatness every single man should always aim for during his existence. The houses rose in concentric circles all around the plaza: The richer the family, the closer they lived to the landmark. And, on the farthest edge, lay the different inns, smithies, orchards, farms, bakeries, and taverns the town had. There was a low wall fencing the entire area and, though it was currently only ten-foot tall, it grew higher every year.

  As Sinod set foot on the stone streets, he noticed the sun had lost the struggle against the clouds. Another sign of the end of summer, he thought. Yet it was not the weather that caught his attention. He saw two boys walking a black horse, an old man carrying a large bag of fruits, and three youngsters holding pieces of steel, which Sinod presumed were destined to some smithy. What was odd, however, was that every so often they would all tilt their heads upward and glance nervously at the sky. He did the same but all he could distinguish was a black blurry figure similar to a dot. A dark star in the white sky, Sinod thought teasingly. Have the gods finally lost their minds? Placing the other red apple inside his mouth, and paying no further attention to the black dot, he pressed on toward the smithy.

  “Sinod!” The voice startled him, as it was not usual that someone would call him by his name in the town, let alone with such zestful liveliness. “Sinod… Sinod… Hang on!”

  A boy named Rickard, whom everyone called the wormeater, was running toward him. The boy was sweating, his black hair stuck to his forehead as sap to a tree. Sinod did not stop walking until Rickard reached him, taking him by the arm with the little strength his tiny hands could muster.

  “What is it?” asked Sinod coldly, setting his arm free as soon as he could. Never had he cared for the boy, neither for his squeaky and annoying voice nor for his disgusting fondness for eating every single worm that crossed his path.

  “Sinod,” repeated Rickard, trying to catch his breath. “Have you seen it?”

  Sinod looked into the gray sky again. The black blur seemed to have slightly increased in size but, to his eyes, it was still a dot.

  “If you mean that black blur in the sky, then yes, I’ve seen it. What about it?”

  Sinod’s indifference surprised Rickard.

  “It’s not a blur!” squealed the boy with mild anger.

  “It seems like a blur to me.”

  “Well, it’s not.” The boy was starting to lose his temper, which Sinod found amusing. “My brother says it’s a dragon.”

  “A what?” laughed Sinod, feigning ignorance despite knowing perfectly well what a dragon was. The sailors who visited the town every once in a while had told them about the magnificent winged beasts with breath of fire that inhabited the mountains of the western continent of Solen. The most accurate rumors said that the men beyond the sea had mastered and trained the creatures for war, while the most far-fetched claimed that both man and beast had mated to create a new monstrous race, one that would someday bring chaos and destruction to every kingdom that would dare oppose them.

  Sinod had long stopped believing in the fairytales he heard in the inns and the taverns. Yet, for some bizarre reason, the conception of those creatures still made him chill. His ideas vanished, though, the moment the squeaky voice of Rickard resounded loudly in his ears again.

  “My brother says it’s just like the monsters the sailors describe,” he said, his voice agitated. “It flew low a couple of hours ago and he got a good look at it.”

  “You haven’t seen it, then,” replied Sinod calmly. “Just like me, all you have seen is a black blur in the sky.”

  “Yes… but… my brother says —”

  “Rolf is a jester,” said Sinod, a tinge of annoyance in his words. “He spends his days playing pranks and making up stories.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Rickard’s face was red with anger.

  “Ease up, Rickard,” said Sino
d, giving one last look at the blur. “I don’t think it’s a dragon. By tomorrow, it will be gone and everyone will be able to go back to their business without having to turn their necks every two seconds.”

  Shooting him one final glance of indifference, Sinod resumed his march toward the smithy, leaving Rickard behind. The boy looked away and rushed to a house whose doors had just opened, probably to recount to somebody the same story he had just told him. Dragons, thought Sinod, stupid boy believing drunken men’s tales. Though, as his black eyes turned to the sky for another time, almost as dragged by a foreign force, he could not help wondering whether he referred to Rickard… or to himself.

  As he approached the smithy, he could not help giving the blur another look. It resembled a black stain in a gray canopy full of clouds. It seems to have grown in size, he thought. Trying to put aside his newfound worries, he looked ahead and entered the smithy. Sinod had always been fond of that place: The large circular rocky wall surrounding the central section; the different kinds of swords, knives, and axes emblazoning its borders, more like pieces of artwork than pieces of weaponry; the sound of the hammers hitting hot metal, as an ancient and long-forgotten war tune; and, above all else, the forge that stood in the bottom of the building. Whenever anyone ignited it, the whole room would lighten up with a beautiful and intense crimson hue. He had always found the vision breathtaking, enthralling, and strangely nostalgic.

  But that day, the smithy was neither shining nor was it warming his body. That day, the smithy did not represent a striking contrast with the grayness of the rest of the town. That day, the smithy was empty and silent, just like every other building in Litten—cold, sad, and without any particular brightness. Sinod was expecting to find his father shouting orders and pointing out errors, but all he encountered was a young yellow-haired boy with light eyes whose job was to deliver the finished products to the clients. His name was Ramus, and he was a boy whose skills lay in numbers and words, yet also a person who had no idea how to forge a sword, let alone how to wield one.