GAUNTLET OF EGG

BY: EVAN DAWN

“First there was nothing. Endless nothing. Forever. Until man was born and named it.” ~ Yevin Yangur, Endless Scrolls, Volume 1

CHAPTER 1 : GREAT EGG-SPECTATIONS

EGG

Yesterday I was going to be King, and today I'm a potato farmer.

That's prophecies for you. Fickle. Unreliable. Honestly, the oracles are as bad as the weathermen. They never get anything right the first try, and they're paid way too much if you ask me.

I slam my hoe into the hard, packed soil. It barely makes a dent. Every muscle in my body begs me to stop.

This is ridiculous.

I’m not built for farming. I’m meant to give important speeches and kiss babies and sign declarations of war.

My clothes, if you could call them that—not a single diamond button or silver stitch to be seen—are soaked in sweat.

Sweat! That’s another new anomaly. I used to have a servant who followed me around with a fan, while another carried a jug of glacial water to keep me hydrated. Was her name Sharim, or maybe Sharal?

I crack my hoe against the ground for what feels like the hundredth time. It bounces back and hits me in the chin.

Son of a diplomat! That's it!

With the burning vengeance of a thousand falling stars, I whip the hoe into a nearby cluster of mulberry bushes.

"Ow!"

I pause, chest still heaving as I try to catch my breath. “Hello?”

A girl shoots up, back straight as a board. Her skin is the colour of fallen acorns, and her dark hair is matched only by her darker eyes.

She’s a little taller than I am.

Great. I’ve hit a witch on the head. She’ll probably curse me into a toad or a leech or something. “Sorry,” I try to laugh it off, “I didn’t see you there.”

Without a word, she lifts up the hoe and holds it out to me. I notice that her fingertips are stained black.

“Keep it,” I say. "My name’s Egg. What’s yours?”

Nothing.

She simply stares at me, eyes widening with every passing second.

This witch is broken.

Then again, it’s not unusual for commoners to be rendered speechless from basking in the light of my shining glory, so I take it in stride. After all, it’s not every day an ordinary girl like herself sees the Endless King in the flesh. Well, ex-Endless King but still—

“What kind of name is Egg?”

I feel like an meteor has been dropped on my head. “It’s a great name!” I defend. “An ancient name, meant for heroic warriors.”

“Egg?”

“I...shut up!”

She shrugs, tosses the hoe back to me, which I fumble to catch, and strolls back to her tower.

Right, I forgot about the tower.

So I might have told a small lie earlier for dramatic effect. It’s actually been a week since I was woken up in the middle of the night, tossed onto the back of a winged horse and returned to the ground.

I was just...thrown away.

The Silk Sisters could have at least given me a farewell feast, or a hug or something. It was all a little sudden. But I suppose they had to make room for the real king. Whoever that is. He’ll be the one drinking a cup of starlight at the crowning ceremony, wearing my robes, sleeping in my silk sheets oh how I miss—ahem, sorry, getting off topic.

Anyways, I was expecting to be sent back to my original village, wherever that is. I was chosen when I was six, so I don’t remember my parents clearly, but I must have come from somewhere.

Surely, I have a home?

But no.

Instead I was greeted by a monstrous blue woman named Bavetna who told my escort she needed a farm boy. She paid him handsomely to take me off his hands, then tossed me on a donkey cart and brought me here.

To Little Abbey.

It’s a rather unimpressive tower in the middle of a rather unimpressive valley. Apparently, it’s a school where young witches are taught manners, magic and a multitude of other useless things.

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My palace’s glittering, golden spires make Little Abbey look like a pudgy thumb sticking out of the ground. A slightly bent thumb at that, with mismatched shingles, peeling paint and a crooked balcony on every level.

I mean, honestly, what kind of witches are they if they can’t even build a proper tower?

I bet I could spell circles around them, but boys can't do magic. Something about women making a sacred deal with a Leviathan—I’m not quite sure. The girls usually keep to themselves, but sometimes I can see their pale faces watching me from the windows, and hear their giggling carry on the wind.

They're all crazy.

Messing with magic does that.

The only one who understands my pain of being surrounded by insane women is Norasmus, Little Abbey's sole rooster. We've bonded in the past week during egg collection. The hens hate us equally.

You might say he's my only friend. How sad is that?

My stomach grumbles.

Ah, that reminds me.

I crane my neck over a bag of fertilizer to look for my brand new prison guard, Bavetna. The landscape is promisingly empty, and it's not like I could miss a bright blue woman with eight legs.

Or is it arms? It's hard to tell.

She's probably out checking traps again.

I drop the hoe and abandon the field. Time for a break. I've tilled a solid...five paces. That's plenty, right?

It doesn't take long to make my way to the chicken pen and hoist myself onto the wooden fence, letting my legs dangle in the tall grass.

I fish a sad, hard boiled egg from my pocket. Bavetna has made the exact same thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner since I arrived.

I think it's a running joke on my name, or maybe she just likes torturing me.

I rip into it with a vicious bite, making sure the hens see me do it. Revenge for pecking my arms to shreds.

It tastes like armpits.

The sun beats down on the back of my neck, but the breeze makes up for it. I close my eyes and take another bite, pretending it's anything other than a slightly squished egg.

Of all the things I miss, food is top of the list. Tiny morning cakes with ginger tea, pork fillers, stuffed pheasant with cactus berry sauce, pepper jelly sandwiches...and carrots.

Steamed, sautéed, broiled in butter, roasted with pheasant and herbs, stuffed with spiced cheese...

I can't explain why, but I would kill for chicken legs drizzled in a carrot glaze right about now.

A chicken squawks up at me. I shoo it away with my heel. Don't tempt me.

"Get back to work!" A deep voice calls from the farm house porch. It's a short, one-story stone cottage set aside from the main tower.

Bavetna unloads a string of rabbit furs and a fat boar beside the door. "Those potatoes won't plant themselves!"

I dig my fingernails into the fence post. A kernel of anger sparks in my chest. Ordering people around is my job.

Or...was my job.

I lean back and look up at the morning sky, exhaling my frustration through my nostrils. Starfloat's familiar golden glimmer isn't visible during the day, but I pretend I can see it.

If only I could go back...

Even if I can't be a King, I could be a scribe. Or a stable hand for the horses. I just need to get off the ground and back into the clouds.

I take a deep breath. "Make me!' I shout across the field.

Bavetna straightens to her full, intimidating height.

Uh-oh.

I remind myself I was almost the Endless King, and won't be cowed by some common field worker. I jump down from the fence and cross my arms, chin up.

Regal. Think regal.

She trolls across the field at full speed, her eight legs...arms...whatever windmill below her.

Her hair is a halo of black fuzz, matching her thick, angry brow, and her colorful wrap jingles with small bells as she moves, more or less covering her many limbs.

She’s definitely got aractaur blood in her. Maybe a bit of giant too, because I’ve never seen a woman that big, or that blue.

She uses her arms interchangeably—to walk, to hold up a fork, to carry the yolk of water buckets for the animals, to snatch chicken eggs, to kick me in the butt when I’m not working—

“Ow!” I land face first in the dirt.

My head spins. I should be drinking fine wine and studying star charts, not spitting out clods of dirt.

Oh look, a worm. Did you know worms taste like snot? Because I do. "Ptew."

Bavetna places four hands on her hips. “I’ve never seen a lazier child. Up, Egg, or you’ll be tilling these field until the End Day comes.”

I brush the dirt off my chest and legs in two, short whumps. “And if I don’t?”

Her lips, stained black, curl into a wolfish grin. “You can sleep in the chicken coop.”

Is she laughing at me?

The words burst out of me before I can stop them. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I was the Endless King! The Unbroken! The Infinite! A week ago, I could have had you beheaded and fed to a horde of squidreeks!

“Then I must thank my luck that it isn’t last week,” she says with the same horrible smile, like the shadow of a spider against a frosted window. “Today, you’re just Egg.”

Just Egg.

Heat sinks into my cheeks.

"And you're just a—"

Norasmus crows from the top of the chicken coop, drowning out my curse.

But Bavetna heard.

She picks me up by the scruff of my neck. Her eyes are two small, cheerful curves. “I know,” she says, “you can take your complaints to the Warden.”

Instantly, as if struck by a brick wall, I stop squirming and kicking. “No. No way.”

I've only met the Warden once, but she's about as friendly as a rattlesnake. I wouldn't be surprised if she bites, either.

Bavetna ignores my protests and carries me under her arm towards Little Abbey’s tower.

Norasmus casts me a sympathetic look.

I cross my arms.

Witches. Women. Spider giants...

I hate them all.

I hate everything.