The next few hours were something of a blur.
Even with the fire, there had still been enough left that the coroner had identified all fourteen dead. Nobody had questioned his use of a firearm, especially since the woman’s knife had managed to escape the heat, and some of the corpses had shown clear lacerations. Matt had been careful not to mention anything about mages or werewolves or disappearing people in robes, instead preferring to talk about the knife, and people rushing him out of the dark.
The general conclusion was that some kind of criminal gang had set up shop in the storage facility, making some kind of chemical weapon. There had been a falling out that had led to a knife and gun fight, which had ended when Security Officer Matthew Irons staggered into the middle of it. The responding police officers had confiscated his duty pistol, told him not to leave town, and sent him home. He had at least one appointment with a detective to follow up.
Matt would have protested, but the night had left him shaken and uncertain. Instead, he had gone home to his rental unit and fallen into the kind of sleep that permitted no dreams.
All of which did little to improve his mood when he heard the knock on his door just a handful of hours later.
The pounding on the door shook him awake. He glanced at his alarm clock and growled a curse. He’d disabled the alarm on purpose this time, knowing that the station wasn’t expecting him until the afternoon. Seeing it was barely eight o’clock was an unwelcome surprise.
Whoever was at the door pounded on it again, and he snarled another curse as he struggled out of bed. He’d barely managed to get out of his uniform the night before, and the urgency of the visitor at the door barely gave him time to pull on a hoodie and some jeans before he staggered to the door.
He pulled it open and was confronted by what could have been his worst nightmare, before his reality had been literally invaded by werewolves. She was a short woman, barely above five feet. Her hair was curly and brown, with more than enough frizz from the humidity to tell him she’d been awake a while. The lady was still adjusting her glasses with one hand; she had the other raised to start another round of beating on his door. There was a press badge clipped to the lapel of her pantsuit’s jacket.
Matt glared at her, well aware of the effect his red-eyed grimace might have had. She seemed impervious to it. “Well? What do you want?”
She squared her shoulders and smiled. “Matthew Irons? My name is Mary Crowley. We talked on the phone yesterday?”
A furnace of pure rage started to life in his guts. Only his mother’s strict countryside manners kept it from boiling all the way to the surface. As it was, Matt considered it a feat of superhuman proportions that he contained it to a smile that was all teeth and no welcome. “I remember, Ms. Crowley. I also remember telling you I had no comment for you.”
“About the college thing. Yes.” She glanced around at the half-barren parking lot. Matt followed her gaze and saw a handful of old women standing near a blue SUV. He recalled seeing one of them before, but they were all looking his way and whispering. “I promise that I’m not here to ask you about any of that.”
Recognition crashed in, and Matt felt his smile grow one step more brittle. “I don’t have anything to say about last night, either.”
“Mr. Irons, I know it must have been a terrible experience, but there are a lot of questions about—”
“The police department will likely be releasing a statement about what happened, and they will probably know a lot more than I do.” He doubted that was entirely true, but he wasn’t crazy enough to think that talking about werewolves, witches, and wizards with a reporter was going to go well at all. “All I did was respond to an emergency call. That’s it.”
Mary’s expression turned incredulous. “A simple emergency call that resulted in fourteen badly burned bodies, some of whom you shot.”
“I have every confidence that the investigation will prove those shots were justified.” He wasn’t that certain at all, now that he thought about it. It wasn’t like the werewolves were carrying sidearms, after all. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She put out her hand and stopped the door as it was swinging closed. “Mr. Irons, you’re going to have to get your side of the story out eventually. People want to know what kind of things are happening in this town. You’d be smart to get on the right side of the story.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have my best interests at heart.” He motioned to her hand. “If you don’t move that hand, you might get a few smashed fingers, miss.”
Her expression hardened. “You can’t run away from me forever, Irons.”
“Going back to sleep is not running, Mary.” He smiled, feeling a little smug and a lot more vindictive. “Say hello to your editor for me.”
She recoiled and started to say something else. Whatever her return jibe had been, the slamming door cut it off. He heard her say something very unladylike, and his door shook with one last impact. Then he thought he heard her stalk away.
Matt allowed himself a few moments to enjoy that small victory. As he gloated, however, he couldn’t fight off the feeling that she might be right. The police might have come up with a decent story at the scene, but the more the investigators dug into things, the more questions they would be asking. It wouldn’t take long for them to decide the whole incident might be easier to sweep under the rug if they hung it on him. Fourteen bodies that were never going to be identified, and a single security guard on the scene? They’d have to be superhuman not to throw him under the bus.
Still staring at the door, he kept thinking it over and coming back to the same conclusions. At some point, he was going to be sitting in a very small room with some very hostile interrogators. What was he going to do then?
“I must say, sire, she seemed as if she was quite the annoyance. I’m surprised you let her survive.”
Matt nearly jumped out of his own skin. He spun around, his hand already grabbing for a pistol that wasn’t at his side. Even his backup piece was still sitting in his nightstand, which might as well have been another country.
The creature sitting on his bed, one leg crossed over the other, didn’t seem to be aware of his apparent shock, however. It smiled at him with a mouth that seemed just a hair too wide, and watched him with yellow eyes with slits like a cat. Its skin was a distinct yellow-green and looked like it was made of scales, while its ears were long and wide, pointing back along the sides of its head.
It wore a rough, dark-colored tunic and leggings, neither of which seemed like they had any place in a modern setting. He could see some kind of sigil had once been stitched into the fabric, but someone had gone through and picked it out recently. Some of the threads were still there, though. It was an odd detail to focus in on, but he could hardly blame himself for trying to grab hold of something to make things less confusing.
To his mild gratitude, the creature didn’t speak while Matt tried to get a hold of himself. After a quick glance at the nightstand, he put a hand behind himself and touched the doorknob. If the thing got unfriendly, he could be out the door in a heartbeat. “Who are you?”
His visitor nodded briefly. It stood and gave him a deep bow. “My name is Gorfeld, and I am your steward, sire. I am here to bring you to your kingdom, which is waiting for your coronation. If it is your will, the ceremony can even be held today.”
Matt stared at him a moment. “My…what?”
“Your coronation. As ruler of the Crimson Peaks.” The thing slowly tilted its head to one side, as if it was trying to study him. “You did kill the Red Sorceress, did you not?”
“I guess?” Matt shook his head. “Look, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m nobody’s king.”
“You are, sire.” The creature was frowning now, examining Matt as if he was worried. “By killing the previous ruler of the kingdom, you have claimed the Divine Right for yourself. The fealty of the land is owed to you, and none else.”
Whatever hallucination he was suffering from, Matt was more than ready for it to be over. He slowly turned the handle on the door, hoping that the knob wouldn’t betray him by squeaking. “That doesn’t sound like a very good way to choose your leaders, Gor…” Matt paused for a moment, trying to put his memories in order. “Gorfed?”
“Gorfeld, sire.”
“Gorfeld. I mean, you’d probably end up with a bunch of murderers and tyrants in charge of everything, without any real qualifications, right? I mean, I’m not a fancy wizard or anything.”
“Most of our rulers are not Wizards, as a rule. The Sorceress was an…exception.” Gorfeld shook his head. He seemed uneasy, despite his inhuman features. “Though you would not be the first outsider to rule among us.”
Matt snorted. “And if I don’t want to rule this…Crimson Peaks place and just give up my right to the throne? What happens then?”
Gorfeld blinked. “Well, there would be an immediate succession crisis. I believe there would be at least six different claimants for the throne, and all of them would begin an extremely bloody civil war.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. “What? There weren’t any heirs to the throne?”
“No. That would only encourage lax behavior and a lack of loyalty… or so the Red Sorceress insisted.” Gorfeld looked away, seeming grim. “The last succession crisis was sixty years ago. It killed three whole clans of our people. Several thousands more died among the clans that survived.”
“Oh.” An option that put the blood of thousands on his hands did not sound like a good one. “Can I just abdicate and give the Divine Right to someone else, then? Would that work?”
The steward paused. “Technically, yes. That is possible.”
“Awesome!” Matt grinned, still holding the doorknob. He could be out the door in an instant, now. There had to be people still outside. “So who can I give it to?”
There was another long pause, and Gorfeld tilted his head the other way. When he answered, his words were slow, as if he was reluctant to say them. “Any of the leaders of our High Clans would accept it easily. All seven would be eager to claim the power.”
Something about the way Gorfeld had said it made Matt pause. “And?”
Gorfeld blinked. “And what, sire?”
“And what would they do with it once they had it? The Divine Right, I mean.”
The thing’s expression twisted. “They…would likely begin by purging their rivals from the clans. When the Red Sorceress took power, she turned half her rivals into Grim Hounds, and fed the rest to them. Before her, the Obsidian King launched an invasion that turned into a war on three fronts, and sent anyone who dared complain to the front lines as fodder. The Pale Master before him spent three years hunting down everyone who’d ever slighted him and locking them in the Tower of Blood so he could torture them to death, all while the Low Folk starved…”
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Gorfeld trailed off as Matt waved him to silence. “You’re saying the new batch of leaders would do the same kind of thing, then?”
There was another hesitation. Then Gorfeld nodded, in a way that seemed fairly certain. “Yes, sire. I do. It is their way.” He paused again and then continued in a low voice. “There would likely be civil war anyway, no matter who you chose. Their rivals for the throne would see your chosen successor as weak, having been handed the Right instead of taking it on their own—though some might try to fix it by killing you afterwards.”
Matt grunted. Obviously, that wasn’t a good option. “So how about you, then? Want to be king, Gorfeld?”
The steward went pale, his yellow-green skin turning an unhealthy shade. “N-no, sire. I am of the Low Folk. Some of the noblemen might rebel against their fellows, but all of them would rebel against me. My family and I would be dead within the day.” Gorfeld paused and looked away. “I have two young daughters, sire. Please.”
It was a completely unfair request, and one that Matt had no chance to refuse. He sighed. “All right. I guess you are off the hook.” Matt quietly let go of the doorknob, letting it twist back into place. “Though just to be sure, what would you have done if I had given it to you anyway?”
For a moment, the steward seemed uncertain. Then he cracked a wide grin. “I’d have named you my heir, of course, sire.”
Matt snorted again, this time smiling a bit more genuinely. “Fair enough.” He looked around his small room, searching for signs that he’d just somehow lost his mind. How bad did a day have to get for him to think some kind of nervous breakdown was the least concerning possibility? When he looked back at Gorfeld, he thought he could recognize an emotion on the man’s face. How did something that strange look hopeful?
In the end, it was that hopeful expression that decided things. It wasn’t quite the same as the desperation on the kid’s face from the night before, but it carried the same weight. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Gorfeld? I come from a place without kings; that means I’m going to do things differently and change things you are used to. It might end up worse than what you would be getting normally.”
Gorfeld actually laughed a little. “I don’t know if that’s even possible. At this point, it is worth a try.”
Matt nodded slowly, his mind spinning. He wasn’t just going to be a cold-hearted tyrant, but he wasn’t planning on being some crowned monarch forever, either. If the example of Cincinnatus had been good enough for George Washington, it would be good enough for him. His mind was already spinning with plans for a society that wouldn’t need some kind of bloody-handed tyrant to force it to work…and besides, it wasn’t like he had much of a choice, unless he wanted to wait for some warlord to pop out of nowhere to stick a sword through his gut.
Still, it ran against the grain to just give in to being conscripted into royalty—especially since the police were going to have some very pointed questions once he got back. “All right, but we’re going to be changing the name. The Crimson Peaks might have worked for the last lady, but I don’t think it fits me very well.”
Gorfeld’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then his grin returned. “The woman outside called you Mr. Irons, did she not? Would the Kingdom of Iron suit your rule, sire?”
A part of Matt rebelled against it instantly. It sounded like the kind of name an evil overlord would use for their empire of terror. Still…
“Fine, we have a deal—but my name’s Matthew. Not some fancy title. Just King Matthew, I guess.” He stuck out his hand. “Shake on it and then let’s get moving.”
Gorfeld blinked, his eyes dropping to Matt’s hand. “Shake? Is this some spell?”
“No. It’s a handshake.” Matt saw a total lack of understanding in Gorfeld’s expression and frowned. “It’s a way to agree to a deal here. I think it used to show that both parties were unarmed?”
“Another strange custom. There are many spells that could kill from touch alone, and even without a spell, would they not have another hand?” Gorfeld tentatively put his hand out. His skin felt rough and scaly, but warm to the touch. “It is agreed.”
Matt shook his hand firmly. As he did, the world around him abruptly vanished in a burst of light. His humble motel-room apartment disappeared. Instead, he found himself in a chamber of dark stone and red tapestries. Torches were burning in sconces, and elaborately carved columns held up a roof inside of what he assumed was some sort of castle. He looked around, his eyes wide as he realized exactly what kind of insanity he’d just signed himself up for.
Then he turned back to Gorfeld and drew in a slow breath. “All right. Let’s get to work.” The steward bowed for a moment and then led him towards a door. Matt followed, trying not to let his suddenly medieval surroundings shake his conviction. It would all be fine. There was no way that it could be that bad, could it?
It was, quite possibly, the worst situation that Matt had ever seen.
“Okay, let’s get this straight.” He scrubbed both hands over his face for a moment, as if to wipe away what he was looking at. “We have no allies, we are surrounded by people who hate us, and half the nobles in the kingdom are going to rebel. Does that sum it all up?”
“Yes, sire.” Gorfeld nodded. He gestured for another servant to approach, this one holding a rich red robe lined with gold. “Would this suit you, sire?”
Matt lifted his head long enough to look at it, and then shook his head. “No. I need something simpler. More militaristic, I think.” He looked back at Gorfeld. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning again. Our capital city is called Redspire?”
“Yes, sire. That is where the palace is located.” Gorfeld reached out and spread a parchment on the table. There was a crude, obviously abstract map on it, with a star near the center. “We are here, in the center of the Spirelands. Redspire is the largest of our cities, and remains under your personal control.”
He nodded. “Large? About how many people are we talking about?”
Gorfeld seemed to swell slightly. His expression became almost smug. “There are just over thirty thousand inhabitants, at last count.”
Matt had to keep himself from laughing. Even Wyoming had bigger towns. “O-okay. We can work on that.” He examined the map, tracing the lines of mountains marching down from the north and noting where the rivers ran. “So Redspire is located on the River Crimson, right? And we have the High Peaks to the east?”
“As you said, sire. The High Peaks are where the Firebloom Imps hold sway.” The steward grimaced. “They are the ones who hold Ashpeak, our city there, and they are led by an Imp named Tek the Mad. He should remain reliable… though much of his intentions are hard to know.”
“I… see.” Matt frowned, and looked over as a new servant entered. This one was much larger than Gorfeld, or the other Imp that had come in before. They stood at average human height, with red eyes, green skin, and tusks. They carried a set of brutish looking armor, festooned with spikes that could not be practical, which they held out for him to inspect. “No, I think it’s…a bit much.”
Gorfeld looked at the armor and shrugged. “It is traditional Orcish dueling armor, but we can try something else.” He gestured again, and the Orc retreated, taking the armor with them.
“Just how many…kinds of people live in our kingdom, Gorfeld?” Matt tried to keep the uneasiness out of his voice. He would have been happy to say that it wasn’t unnerving, but each time he saw someone new, it was like the uncanny valley yawned open in front of him. Part of him kept insisting that the various differences were just some kind of special effects, like something out of the movies, but it was hard to convince himself.
The Imp was frowning at him, as if Gorfeld could tell what he was thinking. “There are many clans under your command. The Imps control most of the High Peaks. The Firebloom clan is the one you truly need to concern yourself with, as both the Goldplain and Ashrock Imps are only Low Folk.”
The capitals on the label were easy to hear. Matt felt his uneasiness increase. “And there’s more?”
“Orcs make up most of the kingdom, honestly. They have three High Clans; the Red Moon Orcs control Red Plains to our west, the Hard Scythes control the Broken Hills beyond that, and the Leaffall clan controls the Copper Hills to our southwest. There are also many Greenriver and Coldhearth Orcs, but once again, they are only Low Folk. The Goblins have only one High clan, the Blackleafs, led by Lady Suluth. She will be loyal, I think. They live in the Darkwood to the south, while their Low Folk clans are the Grimfens and Copperflames.”
The more he heard the word Low Folk, the less he liked it. “What about to our north? Those are Elves?”
“Frost Elves, yes. They also call themselves the Iceheart clan, led by Lady Itrelia. They almost certainly intend to rebel against us, but fortunately, the River Crimson lies between us and them.”
“Not between this other part, though.” He tapped a section to the northwest of Redspire. “Who lives in the Small Heights?”
Gorfeld made a face. “The Gnomes, sire. They were…convinced to join the kingdom by the Red Chief, nearly twenty years ago, but they remain difficult to manage. Their underground burrows are easy to secure, but they are a timid, reluctant people. Even their leader, Lord Nuramesh, is easily cowed. He should remain loyal.”
Matt nodded slowly. It sounded like the Gnomes were more an occupied people than a natural part of the kingdom. He didn’t feel good about that, but there wasn’t much he was excited about at the moment. “Okay, so we’ve got seven High Clans, and the rest are Low Folk. How many High Clans are planning on rebelling?”
“Lady Itrelia will, as I mentioned.” Gorfeld paused. “Lord Teblas, leader of the Leaffalls, will go as well. He was…rather close to the Red Sorceress, sire.”
“Great.” Matt shook his head. “Who else?”
“The Hard Scythes have been fractious of late, sire. They apparently felt the burden of many of the Red Sorceress’ campaigns to the west, and Lord Grufen, their head, has conflicts with Lord Braden of the Red Moons. I suspect they will rebel as well.”
He grunted. “Three out of seven. Not great.” He shook his head over the map as well. “And just about all of our neighbors intend to attack us as well, right?”
“Our past few monarchs have waged many wars against them, sire. They would be more than happy to take advantage of our time of weakness.”
Matt nodded slowly, still running his eyes over the crude map. His uneasiness suddenly solidified as an idea occurred to him. “Gorfeld, what clan are you from?”
The Imp hesitated. “I am a Goldplain Imp, sire. They often call both us and the Ashrock Imps Low Imps, to distinguish us from the Firebloom or High Imps.”
He felt his face tighten slightly. “And what rights do Low Folk have in the kingdom?”
Gorfeld seemed mystified by the question. “Rights, sire? I do not understand.”
“Can they own property? If a Firebloom Imp hurts a Goldplain, what happens?”
“I…” Gorfeld looked increasingly confused. Another servant entered, but Matt gestured for them to pause without looking at them. When the Imp finally answered, his voice was matter of fact in a way that horrified Matt. “Low Folk are given the privilege of serving their betters, sire. They are tied to the land, and to their nobles who watch over them. Those who serve well are given greater trust and responsibility, while those who do not are punished.”
Matt let out a breath that hissed through his teeth. “They’re serfs. You’re saying the High Clans own the Low Folk.”
Gorfeld shifted in place, his stance suddenly uncomfortable. “It… could be said so, sire.”
For a moment, Matt simply kept staring at Gorfeld. A new, horrifying thought occurred to him. “Do I own serfs?”
“Of course, sire.” Gorfeld’s eyes went wide at Matt’s expression. He continued in a hurried voice. “In fact, you have more than anyone else in the kingdom. You have more land and property than any of the other nobles in the kingdom, with the right to—”
“Fuck that.”
A shocked silence followed, as if he had denounced the entire kingdom. In a way, he had. It took Matt a few more moments to bring his temper under control. The prospect of being a slaveowner—worse, the biggest slaveowner around—was not what he was planning on. Sure, societies had existed with some form of forced labor for centuries, and the modern day wasn’t exactly free of it either, but he drew the line at holding the whip himself.
Then again, he already had half the kingdom in rebellion. The quickest way to push the other half to revolt would be to immediately undermine their privilege and power. He had to be careful. It would change, that was not a question, but he had to do it carefully.
Finally, his burning anger back under control, Matt unclenched his hands. He looked up at Gorfeld. The Imp was still staring at him, but the shock had faded into a kind of resignation. Perhaps the man had already decided he was dealing with an idiot. Well, he’d just have to learn the hard way. They all would.
“I’m sorry, Gorfeld. I’m still getting used to the situation. Please continue.”
“That’s mostly everything, sire.” Gorfeld waved at the edges of the crude map. “Our enemies are all around us, to the west, east, and south. They are likely already waiting for us in the throne room, ready to declare war on us the moment you’ve taken the crown. You’ll need to deal with them as well as the rebels. If you can stabilize the situation, we may yet survive the next few months. If not…”
Matt forced himself to nod, thinking as hard as he could. He had the benefit of human history to rely on; teachers like Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, and many, many more were going to give him the chance to keep his enemies off balance and bring things back under control. Another new thought occurred to him, and he glanced at the servant. “Wait, how many of you speak English? How are you speaking English?”
Gorfeld blinked. “English, sire?”
“Yeah, the language I’m using right now. Am I going to need a translator to talk to people?”
“We are speaking in the Common tongue, sire.” Gorfeld smiled. “It is an aspect of the Divine Right. The instant you killed the Red Sorceress, your words became understandable to us, and ours to you.”
Matt sighed. At least that wasn’t going to be an issue. He was already going to have enough trouble without faulty translations messing things up. “Okay, good.” Then he looked over at the servant. She was holding a vaguely militaristic tunic and pants, along with a cape. “Better. Let’s go over it all again. I want to know everything about this place, and its people, before I walk into that throne room.”
As Gorfeld started in on the information again, Matt forced himself to listen, to absorb it. The coronation would be the first test, and he intended to be ready for it.