“Your Majesty?” Old Butler Fredrick bowed deep upon entry, his hawk-like gaze habitually inspecting the commonly overlooked corners of the giant, somewhat empty study.
‘The carpet’s turned subpar at the mercy of wrathful, inexperienced hands.’ His lip twisted into a scowl unseen to his liege, for his courteous bow allowed proper cover, ‘not to forget about the silver that lost its lustre. Paid wages for nothing.’
“Cut it. This Majesty told you innumerable times not to bow to Us when alone.” ‘When will my liege accept the secret decrees…?’ “This lowly peasant won’t dare,”
Fredrick replied promptly, as he did hundreds of times already, followed up by the same line the King knew by heart and hated the most, “for if it comes to other’s attention…” Over time, it had become a habit, a ritual whose meaning was known only to the two.
“Geezer…” The King of the Northerners–––a resolute, petite man in his early thirties on the verge of going bald with a thin moustache and hollow, sunken-in eyes, swallowed a sigh unworthy for a man of his rank.
Life wasn’t beautiful for the privileged royalty up in the far north. And not because of treacherous terrain. Perfidious Court affairs, deadly Council escapades and vermins made sure of that.
He knew it best, this country’s mendacious maxim–––the cancer responsible for six sins out of seven throughout all territories if one was to dig just deep enough. How could he not? Since his late father–––God bless the broken, kind-hearted fool desiring long overdue change–––met just one out of many gruesome ends.
Yet aside from rational expectancies, the pressure that came with the throne was but mental baggage weighing tons. Logic alone did not rule men; emotional desires, too, were part of the species' definition.
And the King was no rare exception either. He had known Old Butler Fredrick since he was merely the ridiculed Fourth Prince’s attendant of ill, made-up repute, whose master had lived for years among scowls of all kinds, including those hurting most and beautifully packaged presents of his deluded father.
Not that the late King was bad or incompetent before descending into madness. He had simply trusted the wrong consultants and with time someone that loved laughter and wished every subject the best life there is turned gloomy, tyrannical, oppressive and through that even easier to manipulate.
With his end fresh before the man's eyes as if it happened just yesterday–––and knowing what living garbage loitering in his surroundings could do to his persona–––the King desired nothing more than to dispatch this wizened old man in front of him with peerage and fertile land to his name in his well-deserved retirement.
All because… his well-being had greater worth than the entire royal family added together. Nowadays, the cancer seemed to extend even beyond the high aristocracy.
What a shame for what pitiful little was left of that blood-related, schizophrenic bunch... A pipe dream, in the end, for his most trusted aide was of common descent. An aggravation many blue-blooded heathens never failed to exploit whenever he left his side.
The King snapped his pale fingers and pushed those irritating thoughts to the back of his mind. Now was not the time to weep after bad memories. For if he succeeded with the plan, he’d secure real power.
Power strong enough to punish all double-faced baboons with neither a shred of dignity nor self-awareness to know their respective places.
Right back into the trash can where they belonged. What irony... without useful aides, it was up to royalty to dunk them back into the shithole their ancestors crawled out from by almost bleeding out for the kingdom.
A grumble escaped him as he confirmed once again the vastness of his planned undertaking, reaffirmed his beliefs. The King rekindled his spirit, decisively turned his back to the butler and gave the humongous world map pinned to the wall a fervent once-over. “How's preparation progressing?” King Rynar I asked, his bleak voice bereft of any emotion.
But if one was to look closer, one’d notice by his slightly shaking shoulders he wasn’t as calm as he hoped he would make the worrywart of a butler believe to be. “This worthless man shall call for advisors.”
“Leave the hyenas be. We asked you a question.” “…there might be some issues.” Old Butler Fredrick sighed, well aware that his King rarely involved the others when there was much at stake.
This left only him correcting any mistakes the King might make–––or adding to his thoughts what men his social standing should have had trouble understanding–––at least in the eyes of the rest of the world. However, such a token of trust changed little in the short run.
The truth remained the same as before: if it came to the others’ ears he overstepped boundaries and gave bad advice–––which being a matter of subjective interpretation, one of lowly descent such as himself could only expect to be charged with in any fantastical way imaginable–––the corrupt Court would be given enough rightful reason to ally with the power-hungry Council and subsequently demand King Rynar I’s political head.
“The excuse?” “Reason being our lands span quite far. It undoubtedly is beyond difficult to dispatch troops in secret–” The King slammed his hand onto the nearby table, reducing the gold-laced furniture to fine splinters in a fit of rage.
A delicate wine pot, some quality tableware and a bottle of ink shattered upon ground contact, making the cold room only messier. “Cur Barathell, that mangy peasant. Not sending assassins after his formalised pageantry to the President of Council was a grave mistake.”
“Your Majesty, with all due respect. Duke Barathell influences two-thirds of the Council. With his late father being a dear friend to the late Sir, the rite of passage was but a matter of time.”
“Don’t take Us for a ride, Frederick. What friend? A bootlicking booze buddy pulling the strings behind dear late Royal Father’s back if anything. Recall his rise to fame?
To influence that old coot so much you’d find traces of his dirty hands even in the Royal Will?!” “...these are mere slanderous rumours. The opposition–” “these. Are. Facts!” The King spat with venom.
“Why else do many commoner families of beautiful women here in the capital of all places–––and take note of that deplorable word: commoner–––disappear?
Surely not because of the convenient curse, with which common superstition chains Our subjects’ minds? Or the raving mad talk about this King's unacceptable recreational habits?
All but nonsense only good enough to bring up inviolable reasons to fight against evil and purge witches. Name me an evil there is besides tumorous lackeys and even worse sheepherders!” “Your humble servant suggests caution, the rumours cannot be proven.”
“This King is no fool, Frederick. We are deeply aware of the fact that bribery overtook royalty, so much all walls have ears in this blasted castle!” King Rynar I gasped for breath, his bearing no longer majestic and imposing but fiery and crude like an alcoholic worker in downtown’s pubs late at night as he became passionate about the innermost feelings he seldom had the freedom to show.
Old butler Frederick felt it, his Majesty’s pent-up anger and incredible helplessness as he had to watch his kingdom fall into ruins at the hands of greed-fuelled depravity and nepotism.
Though he knew it was no wise move allowing his liege to lay his feelings bare, the butler wasn’t that heartless to deny him a few hard to come by moments of inner peace.
The seconds ticked by and neither man spoke a word. Truth or not, it sadly didn’t matter when it came to the previous issues, and eventually, the King could only accept the split in his own camp and his further dwindling power.
“Fredrick, We have a task for you.” It was as if the old butler only waited for these words, for he immediately fell to his knees at once.
“The mages’, pugilists’ and royal circles’ constant squabbles are too impedient to national growth and the future of Our subjects. Enemies outside and friends inside both regularly monitor the Fiery Swords.
We wouldn’t be astounded if some other vermin snugged into their ranks, feeding crucial intelligence to outside sources.” The King cleared his throat, summoned his conviction and continued austerely.
“Travel to the Lost Woods… but first take notice Our treasury seems to lack vigilant guards. Ensnare the locals if you can, the Verdant Valley must be ours within 20 years. Dismissed!”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“All hail the King!” Fredrick showed no change in his expression regardless of how heavy a task just fell on his old shoulders, followed decorum to the letter, stood up, walked to the door, turned back to bow, and exited with poise.
“Frederick,” King Rynar I hoarsely articulated once the door shut tight behind his only confidante's back, his voice crackling like dying embers, “stay safe.” Yet no answer reassured the burdened man.
The messy room remained cold and empty as did his mood. King Rynar I closed his sunken eyes, and when they opened again no emotion fluctuated within, as the icy, piercing gaze fell on the world map in front.
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Butler Frederick’s steps were well-timed, each stride the spitting image of the one before as he walked forward with dignity straightening his back. The spacious, historic hall dating back to the most impressive era the noble lineage Harthinger had ever seen, remained a literal shadow of its former glory.
At the behest of none other than King Rynar I himself and his Austerity Programme, most of the magnificent magic lamps, hoists and heat sources were either sold or did no longer operate.
Hence, it couldn’t be helped that the original castle second to none in the whole of this continent was chilly, poorly lit and the utter contrary of cosy.
And the reason it devolved into such a damp prison was but one. A crippling lack of funds. During any other King’s period, such shame would’ve never befallen the ruler.
Sadly, the much-hated King Rynar I’s reign was hollowed out by the useless Council’s snobbish, holier-than-thou wastrels and their deplorable interest networks riddling the kingdom like a festering plague.
They were the ones driving this country into an escapeless abyss, yet only the King unjustly suffered the whole brunt. The man even had to keep his mouth shut about these matters for fear outsiders would take it as the deciding sign of weakness and come invading in spades.
Old Butler Fredrick shook his head in helplessness. Just as dark and gloomy as the castle was also the land adjacent to it. Heaven for the ruthless, hell for good people.
Miles apart from how the situation had been when the late King still warmed the throne as a puppet. And it was all the fault of one incompetent, young King! Or so folk jeered.
The unscrupulously enriched numbered in many and infested this kingdom to the point relieving the greedy fools of their heads would make matters worse.
Such as–––but not limited to–––increasing manifold the pressure of one that tenaciously refused to act as a figurehead and whose health didn't allow for more, throwing wrenches into working gears developed for everybody’s well-being whenever the rotten braindead felt like doing so...
It was glaringly obvious, the two things the sovereign lacked. Money and capable people. So… who should drive change in their stead? Slaves? Lapdogs?
If the kingdom desired to persist, there was but one solution, Frederick had to concede, as he strode down the sparsely lit corridor and past hidden Royal Protectors refusing to show him even the most basic courtesy. ‘So much for loyalty and the like.’
He subtly dug behind his ear, an old habit he still had to lose dating back to his times on the streets. ‘No wonder his Highness sent me on a mission and not one of his close aides…’
With reality being what it was, the Mighty King’s Faction looked more like a sinking ship full of honourless moles and ungrateful fence-sitters than the Council’s leading party it officially was.
The butler pulled on the silver chain attached to his linen trousers and inspected the flat watch at the end. ‘Little past 10, with 13 hours left before departure.’ The digging intensified.
‘Three capable pairs of hands worthy to take over my work and the incompetent curs expelled… is what must be done. But where to look?’ While the King had undoubtedly had his unwavering attention back then, the qualified old butler failed not to take note of the study’s deplorable state.
Good folk was hard to chance upon these days, and a declining faction like theirs attracted as many sharks as troublesome minds dancing to their own tune and– “Good evening, Butler Fredrick. You ought to pay more attention to the cold.”
“...likewise, Consort Violet. This old man isn’t far from the grave either way, but if Consort’s beauty is to needlessly suffer, that'd be a shame.” “More so from tanned, mangy leather,” the Consort whispered smilingly, her eyes warningly darting at a certain empty niche. “I shall let the royal tailor know immediately.”
“N-no,” the gorgeous woman in the prime of her youth was just about to add blunter words, but Fredrick was already many steps past her.
“Do not worry about me, take proper care of His Highness instead!” ‘!?’ Her mind jolted at the familiar voice speaking directly in her head, stunned by the unfathomable depth of the old man.
Consort Violet cast one short, bewildered glance down the now empty corridor, before ponderingly resuming her walk to the study.
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Shortly after Old Butler Fredrick left the confines of his perception, King Rynar I snickered nastily. In the end, wealth and influence all came down to the resources as well as connections a nation possessed. If lacking in these aspects, development was slow and both possible employment and iron rule lacking.
Talents simply died before they could be put to good use or rotted away under the nobles’ influence. ‘Truly, what a terrible devolution. Here,’ his finger caressed the north, seemingly oblivious to the ink stuck to it. ‘The Kingdom of Dawn. Warm, rich in resources–––a great place to be.’ The King’s face crumbled.
‘Yet full of leeches, wastrels and worse! Why? What did my ancestors think by empowering rabid dogs?!’ His tainted finger wandered first south-east, ‘the Republic of Loki, flourishing thanks to the Brilliant Mages’ guidance and free trade in every corner of the known world. It’s rumoured, they get resources even from other planes,’ then east.
‘The Mara Archipelago, a culture born on the sea bedded amidst thousands of small islands beyond anyone’s authority. Specialists in sea warfare and marauder, they follow but the Pirate King and his crew–––a title given to the strongest native.
And,’ a sudden punch went right through the southern part of the world map, creating many crisscrossing lines on the marbled wall behind, ‘the Tyrant’s Playground. A one-woman-army menace subjugating the whole south by bringing but slavery and misery.
Every barbarian starts with the status of a slave–––even the influentials' newborns do. By passing difficult challenges and fervently getting stronger, these slaves may become just anyone! Even the one and only Tyrant herself! We do not understand.
Such an ugly meritocratic system should have broken down at the latest after the first Tyrant’s passing, but why do such backwater cretins bloody ignorant of all that does not pertain to the realm of brutality grow in power so much it threatens Our kingdom?’
Under a fit of rage, the King ripped up the map as if it was his arch-enemy, donning a wrathful expression on his scrunched-up face as his breath and heartbeat accelerated.
‘Once upon a beautiful time, the whole world was the Harthinger’s backyard! But now, internal strive drives us to the verge of extinction.” King Rynar I grabbed a cracked vine amphora and emptied its sweet content in a few, big gulps.
He spat out the stony splinters that must have fallen into it earlier. ‘To save Our people, We require resources and opportunities.
Make known–––especially to that Tyrant–––that the Kingdom of Dawn is not easily coveted! Our situation inevitably stipulates that invading any other power will break our necks. There is no escape but the savage north, to war against demi-humans. That forest must be ours at all costs!’
Tok, tok, tok.
Soft knocking sounds came from the door before the person behind them swung it open just enough to allow her entry. “Might Your Highness be willing to share the troubles with this little woman?”
Consort Violet curtsied elegantly–––but the tormented King raised his head just once, hardly sparing the beautiful woman a second glance before returning to the many shreds on the ground.
She, on the other hand, remained unperturbed and slowly approached to massage his hot, throbbing temples. “Mhhh,” King Rynar I could not prevent a deep moan from escaping his throat.
“Accompany Us to the Royal Quarters.” He demanded sternly. “As my Prince Consort wishes.” Although deprived of the emotion she so desired, Consort Violet put on a brave front and followed one step behind her royal husband.
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Early the next morning both King and Consort were shaken out of their sweet sleep. Before King Rynar I could take out his anger on the insolent fool daring enough to barge in unannounced, an unexpected report made his face blanch.
He threw out both Consort and bugger, then sat down on the bed powerlessly, playing his part of a grieving man.
King Rynar I had been told the carriage Old Butler Fredrick took last night supposedly came across uncharacteristically strong bandits, thus his disappearance.
As if that was not enough already, the treasury had been sufficiently emptied to resemble more a blank-swept storeroom, which gave rise to some troublesome issues in the Council as a good part of some arrogant noblemen's fortune had been part of it.
As a king, he had long since lost control over his own treasury. It was confiscated and flaunted in his face just months after his coronation. What all things had in common was that they demanded his immediate attention right now.
The man got in his gears and did what he could in a drunken display of helplessness. Throughout the days to come, he got no free second to calm himself or to even personally bid goodbye to the grandfatherly figure that had left him forever.
The Devil must have truly turned mischievous, for the many problems haunting his faction seemed to know no end and the King hardly closed an eye for an entire week.
Only once the situation was barely under control and even the last hair absent from his head, was the emotionally beleaguered wreck of a man permitted to withdraw to the deserted Royal Quarters and get a good night’s worth of sleep–––or so the delighted Council members believed.
However, the reality couldn’t be farther from their wicked desires. For as soon as Rynar I confirmed being left alone to wallow in despair, an icy smirk engulfed his pale face. The same no crazed gambler addict was a stranger to.
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End of the Prologue