The Bringer of War

King Drakken sat upon his comfortable, padded throne, the heavy crown hung upon the armrest. He was rubbing his nose, his eyes tightly shut, as a nervous captain stammered through the tale of Lord Mannix’s escape. The torches had burned low at the late hour, and his majesty had yet to call upon servants to replace them. The dim lighting served to cast the King in fearsome pall, even more so than his apparent discomfort at the bad news.

“We are watching all the roads leading out of town, your highness,” said the captain, “and we are sure that the fugitive will be caught soon-are you alright my King?”

Drakken had hidden his face in his palm, and his shoulders began to shake. He dropped his hand to his lap to reveal a wide grin splitting his wrinkled face.

“What am I missing, your majesty?” said the captain, licking his lips.

“Oh,” said Drakken, wiping a tear from his eye “there’s nothing funny at all about Lord Mannix’s escape, though in the end it matters little. What I am laughing about, you insipid fool, is your ignorant belief that your feeble platitudes will save your life.”

“My, my King?” said the captain, a stunned expression on his face.

Drakken sprang from the throne, his hands grasping the captain’s face. He crossed the short span between them in the blink of an eye, too fast for his victim to react. Drakken’s long, bony thumbs sought the captain’s eyes and began to press in on the soft, spongy tissue. The captain screamed in agony, his hands desperately grasping at Drakken’s wrists. Despite terror and pain driving his body the man was as helpless as a newborn in the King’s hands.

“You know,” said Drakken, as his thumbs pressed in deeper “I could just leave you blind, spare your life...”

Blood welled up around the king’s digits, now buried past the second knuckle in the ruins of what were once the captain’s blue eyes. The man kicked and hollered, his shouts drawing a gaggle of servants who gawked in the hallway. Drakken released him, and the captain dropped to his knees, hands clasped over the red, spurting chasms that once housed his eyes. The king looked up at the servants and grinned, blood spattered on his face.

“Do tell the kitchen staff to prepare a midnight repast for me,” said the King “I’m positively famished!”

The women dashed away, squealing like piglets. Drakken shrugged and turned his attention to the bleeding wreck on the floor before him.

“Up you come, old chap,” said Drakken, grasping the man by his elbow. The captain wailed, pleaded pitifully for his life.

“There now,” said Drakken “I’ll not harm another hair on your head, my good man. We’re just going for a walk.”

“Wh-” said the man with quivering lips, his face twisted up in misery “where to, my king?”

“Just a walk up to the parapets,” said Drakken. He dragged the fellow to the staircase adjacent to the throne room, his strong grip keeping the man upright more than the captain’s own efforts. Drakken stopped at a landing three floors up and shouldered open a stout wooden door. A blast of humid air hit them both, and the king smiled down at the lights of the city below.

“Some view, yes?” he said, turning to the captain. He put his hand before his mouth and giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, I am so sorry, of course you cannot see it. It is quite beautiful, you know, but it is a long way down...”

“Please, your majesty,” said the captain “please, I’ve served you loyally for thirty years, I have a family-”

“Oh dear,” said Drakken, shaking his head “how pathetically predictable. You know, with all the different people I have met in my fifty years as monarch, I have noticed something. No matter what gods they honor, no matter what profession they engage in or hobbies they enjoy, everyone is just the same when they know they are about to die.”

“Please,” said the captain, grasping blindly with his shaking hands “please...”

“Exactly,” said Drakken, clapping his hands together excitedly “that is my point precisely! They all make with the ‘please my king,’ and the ‘but I have children,’ it’s really quite a bore. So that is why I came up with this little game. I will let you go, my good man, and even give you a generous stipend, if you can walk one complete circuit of the wall. I would say that falling disqualifies you, but well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

“I hate you!” screamed the man. “You are a cruel man who cares nothing for the people whose lives he ruins!”

“Captain,” said Drakken with a sigh “you continue to disappoint me. For that is the other thing that people tend to say, along with-”

“Where are you, you bastard?” shouted the man, making a desperate lunge that Drakken avoided with ease. “I’ll bloody take you over the edge with me!”

“Along with making threats,” said Drakken “I was going to say, until you proved my point most eloquently. Very well, if you will not play my game-”

The king stepped behind the wildly twisting blind man, putting a foot firmly upon the man’s back. With minimal effort he shoved the captain over the edge. The man screamed the whole way down, until he hit the edge of the filthy moat. A bit of masonry ruptured his head like an overripe melon before he tumbled into the murky waters.

Drakken turned on his heel and went back inside the castle, his step jaunty and light. He was even humming a raunchy bar tune popular in his youth when he nearly bowled over Roland coming out of the throne room.

“Forgive me, your majesty,” said the seneschal hastily.

“Think nothing of it,” said Drakken.

“I have excellent news, sire,” said Roland, his eyes agleam. “Our new spy has proven himself most useful. We have confirmed the location of Duncan Davros and his pathetic band of traitors. They have taken shelter in the forest near Ravensford. Apparently our man Crown knew about them for some time but neglected to mention it to me.”

“Crown is as serpentine as any dragon in mind and spirit,” said Drakken with a frown. “I have never fully trusted him.”

“Nor have I,” said Roland “but he is, or at least, was the best.”

“Have you dispatched men to the south to deal with Davros?” said Drakken, striding over to the throne and seating himself upon it. A servant arrived bearing a silver tray laden with meats and cheeses. She also offered the king a golden bowl filled with warm water and a towel.

“For your hands, your majesty,” said the girl. Drakken smiled up at her, his eyes impressed.

“How are you called, my dear?” he said.

“Myrtle, lord,” she said with a small smile.

“You were in the hall, were you not?” he said. “Earlier, when I had my disagreement with Captain Willard.”

“Aye, my king,” said the girl.

“Disagreement, sire?” said Roland.

“Oh, yes,” said Drakken, briefly glancing at the seneschal “please choose someone from the ranks to replace Willard as master of the Tower, will you please?”

“Replace him?” said Roland.

“Yes,” said Drakken “we had a little falling out.”

He returned his gaze to Myrtle, who demurely gazed at the floor. She was a slight little woman, slender but graceful. Her bust was much smaller than Drakken preferred, but her hips were wide enough to bear strong sons. Light brown hair stuck out in tufts beneath her white maid’s cap, her eyes light brown in hue.

“You are not the least bit afraid of me, are you?” said Drakken in wonder.

“No, my king,” she said.

“Very interesting,” said Drakken “do you not know it is a duty of every citizen, both noble and peasant, to fear their king?”

“Yes, my king,” she said.

“Then why do you not fear me?” said Drakken, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you shirk your duty?”

“I cannot be afraid of you, my lord,” she said bluntly. “I cannot fear anything at all.”

Drakken smiled, looked to Roland in great amusement. With a sudden snarl Drakken flung the silver tray from his lap and took two strides towards the maid. His hand closed around her throat tightly, not so much that she could not breathe but enough that she surely knew her life was literally in his hands. Still, the maid looked placid. Her eyes were wide, her hand reflexively grasping his wrist, but still her face bore not a trace of terror.

“I could kill you right now,” he said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t feel anything,” she said plainly.

Drakken released her and stood looming over her slender form, breathing heavily. He did not understand her, and things that he did not understand often became broken.

“How can this be?” he said. “Did you anger some witch or faerie-”

“No, my king,” said Myrtle, reaching a hand up to pull her cap back a bit. A wide, fish belly white scar ran across her forehead just below her hairline. “I was struck in the head when I was but a lass, and slept for many days. When I awoke, I was able to remember having feelings but could not feel them any longer.”

“How did you get struck in the head?” said Roland, moved to a bit of rare sympathy.

“By a brigand, my lord,” said Myrtle “I was struck on the head and raped by three men, though I recall none of it.”

“Allfather have mercy,” said Roland with a shudder. The seneschal could deal with women being ravished (in fact he fantasized about it regularly) but something about the cold blooded way Myrtle described her horrific experience did not sit right with him.

“Tragic,” said Drakken, though his eyes said he was more intrigued than anything. “Tell me, my dear, do you like cleaning out chamber pots and scuttling about on your knees all the time?”

“I do not like anything,” said Myrtle “though I would prefer, sometimes, to not be as tired at the end of the day, and perhaps to be paid a bit more than I am that I might purchase more tomes and texts.”

“You can read?” said Drakken, his angular brows arching. “Tell me then, if you could do work for me, that required little physical effort and gave you more than enough coin to purchase as many tomes as you wish, would you be interested?”

“I would,” said Myrtle. “It sounds intriguing.”

“She likes something,” said Roland with a grin “reading.”

“I do not like reading,” said Myrtle “it simply fills the hours.”

“The hours?” said Roland with a frown.

“The hours until my death,” she said bluntly.

Drakken threw back his head and laughed, once more filling the modest throne room with his baritone.

“This is too rich,” he said. “My dear, Roland and I have some things to discuss. It would please me if you would remain, as I have been thinking a personal scribe would be just grand.”

“Really, your highness?” said Roland. “A scullery maid, and one that is none too buxom at that...”

“She is perfect,” said Drakken “she does not feel, old friend. She will not shy from the gruesome details of our machinations. She will not pity those who must be trampled under foot as we charge forward to the future! Her literacy is but the final nail in the shoe horse, my friend.”

“As your majesty commands,” said Roland, blinking. “With your permission, then?”

“By all means,” said Drakken.

“Regarding our previous discussion,” said the seneschal a bit stiffly “we have few troops to spare, with the mustering at the Bloodwood and all. So I used some...outside help.”

“Mercenaries?” said Drakken with a frown. “Our coin is spread thin, Roland...”

“Not mercenaries,” said Roland “assassins, killers like Crown. In fact, it was he who put me in contact with them some years ago, when he was nursing an injury and was unavailable himself. I wound up not using them-”

“Why not?” said Drakken.

“Because they were to target Lord Geoffrey,” said Roland.

“Who did us a favor and fell of his horse,” said Drakken with a laugh. “You know, I always amused that the Gray Death was responsible for that one. Turns out it was just blind, stupid luck!”

“Indeed,” said Roland “but returning to the matter at hand, sire, I do believe that these foreign professionals will suffice.”

“How much are these ‘foreign professionals’ going to cost us?” said Drakken harshly.

“Very little, sire,” said Roland meekly “they were willing to work, all seven of them, for the same fee as Crown took individually.”

“This seems too good to be true, Roland,” said Drakken. Myrtle silently listened, her eyes giving nothing away.

“I believe they are trying to get into our good graces, sire,” said Roland. “That and, I get the distinct impression that they are searching for something. I was plied with many questions by their man in Fort Drakken, none of them pertaining to you, sire.”

“Pertaining to what, exactly?” said Drakken.

“Mostly to our unsolved murders and burglaries,” said Roland. He chuckled a bit as he recalled the conversation. “They were particularly taken with the urban legend of The Roach, sire.”

“Urban legend,” said Myrtle.

“Yes,” said Drakken “it seems that there are many who believe in the existence of a man made of shadow stuff who bears the brunt of the blame for crimes that go unresolved in our fair city.”

“The gray death is too, a legend,” she said.

“She has a point,” said Drakken “but it matters not. We shall see if they can end Davros’s life as well as his little rebellion. If they perform adequately, we will use them as a replacement for Crown.”

“Our spy has further news,” said Roland, swallowing hard “I am afraid that Sir Cromwell is making his way north, along with a faerie woman.”

“A faerie?” said Drakken, stunned “outside the Bloodwood? You accuse me of breaking treaty with the fey folk, when they have spies already sent against us?”

“I have no confirmation of that, sire,” said Roland “but our spy has been reliable so far.”

“It does not matter,” said Drakken “soon the Queen will arrive, and I’ll be in possession of the most powerful army the world has ever seen. Let Bruno come, let him test the mettle of his rightful king. We will crush his allies to the south, the faerie are already contained to the north...he is just a man, and men can be slain.”

“As you will, sire,” said Roland “I thought it would be remiss not to bring it to your attention.”

Roland spun on his heel, intent on getting as far away from Drakken as possible. The king had grown mercurial and unpredictable of late, and he had no intention of bobbing for horse apples in the slimy waters of the moat.

** *

Duncan surveyed the ruined tower, his home for over a year. His old bones would not miss the drafty, cold place, but he had to admit a smattering of nostalgia rose up in his heart at the prospect of leaving. Behind him, a train of a half dozen pack mules were being attended to by two youths not yet old enough for battle. Most of his four score men had already left, snaking their way through the woods towards the capital. He hoped that Bruno was well, for he had always cared for the stoic man and thought him to be honorable, but in his heart he believed that the knight was doomed, his future as black as his skin. His forces could do little more than harass Drakken’s garrison, and a distraction was possibly the only aid he could offer. Even if Bruno could get close enough to Drakken to carry out the thirteenth duty, it was unlikely he would survive afterward. Even if the other Templars did not cut him down, courtly politics would not suffer the presence of a foreign player, even one raised entirely in the north.

He turned away from the tower and his musings. Opening his mouth to speak, he was about to bid the boys to get their train moving when he noticed they had vanished.

“Lads?” he called out loudly. “Are you jesting with an old man? Get back here, we must make haste to catch up with the others.”

Davros walked into the wood, the sun hidden behind dense foliage. He glanced about himself in the gloomy environs, his voice taking on a timbre of fear.

“George?” he cried. “Leonard? Your fathers will stripe your hide if you keep up this nonsense!”

The old man spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He crashed through a thicket, tearing his arm a bit on a thorny vine. He stumbled into a small clearing bathed in sunlight. There lay the two boys, still as if they were asleep, but their eyes were staring sightlessly at the bright summer sky.

“Oh, no,” said Davros, his heart breaking even as his sword darted from its sheath. He knelt next to the bodies and closed their eyes with his free hand. He heard the faintest whisper of a foot sliding across the mossy ground behind him. “I understand that you must kill me, but why the children?”

He began to turn to face his killer, but the sharp point of a curved blade thrust through his neck ended those ambitions. Duncan Davros fell face first over the children he had failed to protect, never having seen the face of his assassin.

Silent as a falling feather, the killer followed the trail taken by Davros’s men. He joined the other black garbed men crouching high in the branches of towering elms, scampering up the trunk with the aid of leather hoops adorned with curved claws worn around his palms.

“The commander lies silently, my brothers,” he said behind his black hood. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the other men. “Now we head north, to lay his forces to rest as well.”

“They number four score,” said a man a bit heavier than the rest.

“I know,” said the first killer “it will hardly be a test for our skill, but we are building bridges...”

The other men snickered a bit, the slithered down the tree like snakes. As soon as their soft soled shoes hit the ground they were off at a run, closing in on Davros’s unsuspecting rebels.