3.5 43%

The plaza was deserted. The quartz paving stones gleamed, majestic towers soared all around, the emerald vines weaving across the trellises lining the road were perfectly trimmed, and yet no-one was there. It was not a fitting welcome for a king.

At the head of a column of golden-plated guards, six brave warriors strode onward to the sealed ebony door of the whitewashed courtroom. Well, one warrior, a joyless accountant, a bumbling fool of a merchant, an almost stinkless old scallywag, an obnoxiously foppish gentleman with the tenacity to wear purple on a Sunday, and a ridiculous mound of ermine and airy-fairy cloak and crown, and now you see why we went with six warriors. Try to imagine that they radiated a commanding presence through the shuttered streets of the city.

King Gary the First and Only had still yet to figure out why Ostenwal had eluded his notice for so long. The obligatory Temple District alone looked to be the size of Desert Marsh. The ambassadors had proclaimed it the breadbasket, the shining jewel, the iron fist of the South. Perhaps it had lain secret all this time, pulling the strings of the South, only to reveal itself when its puppets had failed. Perhaps it existed only as the next complication to be knocked down in Silven’s tiring reign. Perhaps it didn’t exist at all.

Dasat, clad now in the smart black leather of a royal general, heaved open the heavy door. On the other side, guardsmen looked out expressionlessly and clutched at their maces. The main hall was dimly lit, and almost as silent as the streets. A shallow, sweeping bowl of benches encircled the main marble plinth, upon which perched the common council of the city. The stern one in the tall hat must have been Vilgrin, the Pale Watcher, because Vilgrin had written the reply to Silven’s inquiries, and your point of contact was always the most obvious in a crowd. Even spies.

The door creaked shut behind the delegation. Vilgrin rose and regarded his guests with the eyes of a hawk. “Welcome, Gary, to our great city. I trust you find it spectacular.”

“You shall not utter that name,” snapped Olgred at once. “The correct term of address is Your Majesty.” He looked nervously at Silven’s twitching eye.

Vilgrin laughed humourlessly. “I was merely trying to be polite. As for the king, he disappeared some fifteen months ago, at the conclusion of your little uprising. They may have crowned you, yet the South does not recognise you. We await the return of our majesty.”

“How dare-” began Olgred shrilly, until Silven clapped a hand firmly on his podgy shoulder. Vilgrin’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, the royal advisor. Such a charming guest. We should be honoured to pass him over to His Majesty. Last time we spoke, he was on the lookout for a new jester.”

Silven stepped in as Olgred’s folds began to flap. “Nah, Olgy’s a company man. Head of Stuff; the acquisitor of generalised resources. Acquisitor, is that right?”

“Acquirer,” corrected Olgred, glad of a moment to remove his gaze from the scowling men above.

“The advisors have taken permanent residency in the National Museum of Nonsense and Wankery.”

“The.... what?”

“The old palace,” explained Silven. He swished closer than ever to the plinth. “Truth be told, I can’t be bothered with all this king stuff. All that endless pomp and poncery, and for what? You know what was waiting in my solar that first morning? A chest of gold! Pah! What do men of Silverlink do with a chest of gold in this legendary age? So, one day.... I just walked out. The court’s been awaiting my decision on the year’s herb crop since, err, last year. And damned patient they are, too. Gives the kids all the fun of a waxworks, but without the maintenance.”

For once, Vilgrin’s face wrinkled with mirth. “And I hear you have turned to greater dilemmas. Tell me, what have you decided to call your new kingdom?”

Dasat looked to Simitest. Olgred looked to Trashbag. Ulf glared at Silven. “Eighteen impillions,” he mouthed. Silven coughed. “We’re looking at the Republic of Newburg, we think. Something modern, to reflect the utopian days.”

“But we’re not droppin’ the ‘h’ yet,” drawled Trashbag.

“But we’re pleased to announce that the ‘second e’ campaign is ready to furl their flags,” called Olgred hastily, “so you could say things are wrapping up. No more deaths, we’ve pledged.”

Vilgrin only raised his eyebrows. “So you’re renouncing the title?”

Silven paled. “Oh, sorry. The Royal Republic. My powers are greatly reduced in accordance with the ideals of freedom we have brought to the rest of the nation. Now, I only elect the government and give advice on what they decide.” The others nodded eagerly. Olgred pointed an accusing finger up at the stand. “So you could learn a lesson if you weren’t so stubborn!”

The common council revolved in their seats and muttered darkly. The shadows encircling the benches absorbed the words hungrily. Vilgrin listened to a whisper or two and spoke up. “The free lands of Oldeburgh tire of your ramblings. You wished to see us, and we shall reiterate our stance.” At the words, the guards drew themselves into their most fearsome pose and glared at the guests. “The 1470 Memorandum of Zero Cooperation. The South shall admit no rebels within its borders. We shall not trade. We shall not allow preaching of your aimless and listless ways. We shall reject all the laws, decrees and rights of holding of this so called state of Newburg. You sit by idly while the Table Treaty goes undebated. You grow bloated and decadent on your power, but it will not last. We will not share your fall.”

Silven’s advisors clamoured for attention. The king himself pushed away and gestured to the grim hall. From side-doors and dark passageways, the clatter of metallic feet drew nearer. “Come on! There’s less to it than all that. I’ll spell it out: my people lead better lives. Crime has gone. Leisure and luxury fill our days. All the essentials paid for by our glorious twin corporations. In return, we ask but simple service to fill the land with laughter and joy.”

“And the odd ice cream avalanche or flowerstorm,” added Olgred apologetically.

“Yes, but my point being.... you’ve no reason not to reunite,” finished the king defiantly.

Before the tension could swell further, the oaken door burst open with a thunderous rattle. The shouting of dozens of nearby men filled the thick air. Beyond.... the ripple of a much larger crowd. The people had crept from their homes, and they were restless.

A messenger in purple silk rushed from the opening, and bowed before his council. Behind him trotted a scattering of men from Silven’s guard, turnbows raised, ready to pacify the throng. Their faces were pale and scared. “Prepare thyself, Your Majesty,” implored one. “They mean to murder us! It’s a trap.” He sallied forth and kicked away a peasant as he made to enter the hall behind a trestle shield.

The council on the plinth rose with cries of shock and fright and glee. Only Vilgrin remained seated. He smiled a cold smile. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of his messenger.

The boy shook, his excitement barely held back by his sense of solemn duty. “An army approaches from Newburg’s southern border,” he announced loudly, his thin voice shaking. “They say it is the rightful king, seeking revenge on those who have wronged him.”

“And the people demand justice,” mused Vilgrin, savouring every word as it floated from his tongue. He eyed the six delegates wolfishly as they huddled before the plinth.

Silven’s blood froze. He looked to and fro as the Ostenwal watch turned and held the sudden surge of ragged youths from the threshold. His own guard crouched and prepared their weaponry. The loud crack of turnbolts rent the air from outside. A stream of panicked merchants and small lords leapt from the marble steps behind the council plinth and hurried for the doorway beyond, lined with soldiers. It couldn’t be happening. None of it.

He leaned across the tiles and spoke urgently into his general’s ear. “Dasat, leave us. Speak to the garrison captains of Southcastle and Windlane. I need information. Summon the Draughts and Chess battalions if necessary. I feel like a good game soon; tell them we’ll arrange another national championship once this threat is seen to.” The loyal mercenary nodded curtly and vanished as angry voices rose. A stone sailed above the heads of the council’s struggling guards and clanged from the breastplate of a machine-archer. All too soon, time was running out. Again.

Silven caught the attention of his remaining entourage and advanced on the plinth. “You can still make the right choice,” he bellowed over the clamour of the mob. “What have we done to deserve your rebuttal?”

“Your greed and laziness harbours the plague!” roared Vilgrin forcefully from his perch.

Olgred pointed as a mass of swirling rectangles blinked past the human barricade and instantly spirited the armour from a surprised watchman. “As do you. Its everywhere now.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Your laws of fraternity scorn the sacred rights of the high families,” pressed Vilgrin relentlessly. “Centuries of lineage and chivalry gone, to be treated now as a common scallywag.”

“Nonsense,” protested Simitest. He dodged away as a guard wrestled an old woman screaming something about vengeance to the ground. “The king grants exclusive playing cards to the aristocracy, in recognition of their positions among formerly lesser men.”

A vaguely familiar face popped up from the edge of the stand. The sour face of an old healer. “Last year, you swore on the beard of Bilsutha, but she don’t have no beard, sir!” she grated. “Now the gods cast down your false claims.”

Olgred opened his mouth, and sunk. “She’s got me at that one. It’s true – Bilsutha doesn’t have a beard. I think you meant Bilsitha.”

“Silence!” roared Vilgrin, batting the old woman away. “I will not be shamed long by such a petty excuse for war. We’ll think of a good one later. As for now... prepare to lay down your crown, blasphemer.”

The crowd roared. The small knot of royal machine-archers stamped forward and fired several disciplined volleys across the plaza. Beyond, the more frantic shots of stranded soldiers mingled with the enraged screams of their foes. At last, Vilgrin rose. He leered menacingly over his platform and waved goodbye.

Silven sighed and whipped off his irksome cloak. “I didn’t want to put him in danger, but time to bring in the big boys.” He pressed a finger to the little sphere in his ear. “Lord, Mayor, Councillor, whoever you are, I present.... Herbie Sootroller, CEO of Silverlink Enterprises and Lord Executor of Sciencey Things for Newburg.”

There was a flash of brilliant blue light across the room. Beneath the hurled rocks, a little figure trotted to his underlings’ sides. It was just a boy, no more than ten, clad in dark stained rags and dapper grey cap ill befitting of his official positions and perfect for what was to come. “Aright, guv, you ‘ad yer shenanigans,” he chirped through the clamour of the riot. “Way I see it is like this. Forget all yer boring adult stuff, and think of the grub!”

“Grubs?” snarled Vilgrin, pausing on his descent to escape.

“Nosh. Vittles. Bait.” Herbie wiped a sudden splatter of blood off his shoulder with a greasy sleeve and grinned up at his foe. ”It goes like this.” He counted out his points quickly on chubby fingers. “Eight farms in the old kingdom. We ‘ave the five magic turnip ones. Your three are fer carrots. Yum!”

“Get to the point!” growled the looming merchant from above.

“Over at the work ‘ouse, we bin thinkin’. Yer know ‘ow craftin’ works, right? Well, we’ll do the same with food. Recipes, we calls ‘em. Two things at once! Just think! Me tums rumblin’ at just the thought. Carrot an’ turnip stew. Carrot an’ turnip soup. Carrot an’ turnip-“

“That’s just...” began Vilgrin.

The ragamuffin finished with a cheeky grin.

“Wonderful,” finished Vilgrin. “All right. Maybe this new place of yours isn’t so bad. But why do I feel so.... odd saying it?” He flexed his slender fingers as if in pain, and shook his head. He hurried down the stand two steps at a time and hurried to the nearest scuffle. “Okay, people. Rebellion’s over!”

“I hear the new stews are a sensation!” cried a thousand voices all at once, as the thunder of two thousand feet clopped away down the plaza. Vilgrin turned to face the king with a strained smile. “I’ll send a quick IM to this usurper to let him know he won’t be having Ostenwal’s forces. So, when do we-”

He was cut short as another racket filled the street. “Winner winner! Chicken dinner!” clucked a dreadful cluck. There was a mighty thud from the grounds of the hall. Men screamed and fired crossbows in panic. The wind of a monstrous wing fought against the watch as the heavy door inched shut. Silven looked sideways at his new ally with a sarcastic grin. “See? This plague is everywhere. I’m afraid we have to get young Herbie to safety. I’ll teleport in a fresh battalion to get this city back under control. We’ll speak of soup once this old king’s in his grave.” But even as he said it, a chuckling voice deep in his subconscious echoed back: There is no old king.

“Can’t fast travel when enemies are nearby,” droned Vilgrin as he backed away from the door.

Silven laughed. “Old news.” He pulled out a glossy new map from his pocket. “With the new Silverview 5X, you could bow out anywhere, anytime. Not to mention control the flow of troops around a battlefield instantly with your fingertip. The invasion has failed before it’s begun. See ya!”

He touched Limetop with a fingertip. It appeared he could not bow out anywhere, anytime, nor control the flow of his troops around a battlefield instantly. Simitest winced. “You bloody fool! Lifesaver’s Folly, one of the oldest curses going. Everyone knows not to talk about your way of escape before actually doing it. You’ve doomed us all!”

“Can I ‘ave a sweety, guv?” Herbie chipped in.

“Sure,” replied Silven. Carefully, he retrieved a toffee from a deep pocket and popped it into the child’s mouth. “But remember what I said – no more ‘til you’ve done your homework. I want the Glutton Pass scandal covered up, and the Moon Donkey reservation legislation through before bedtime. And you’ve got even less time now we have to wait for this megapoultry to move on.” From outside, the sickening crunch of bones seeped through the thick walls.

Just then, there was another flash, and Dasat was by his side. His armour was dented in a dozen places, and he clutched the stump of his former right hand close to his chest. He was as white as a sheet, and in his eyes was the reflection of doom. The blanket of silence drowned out the rampage on the plaza. Silven looked on and said nothing.

“Rebel’s banners are nowhere to be seen,” managed Dasat in pained gasps. “The octopus of Silcia, though, and the fist of Stoneyviewe. Ten thousand men surrounding Windlane, twelve at Southcastle. Fort Eagle taken from the north by Skypoint stormrunners. Bridge battalion scattered, Draughts utterly annihilated. And in the east....” He trailed off and sank to his knees. Simitest and Olgred rushed to help him to the steps of the plinth, whilst one of the guards hurried off for a cup of water.

“Right bloodbath, eh?” laughed Herbie. Silven thumped him smartly on his cap and stared on. “The surrounding kingdoms have risen?” he murmured at last. “All of them?”

“No doubt terrified at the prospect of revolution and the threat of destabilisation to the economy,” answered Ulf. “I’ve said it before – things aren’t meant to work like this.”

“His Majesty will not suffer traitors,” faithful Olgy warned from Dasat’s side.

Silven ignored him. And I’m not meant for victory. Not like this.

“We have about a tenth of the foe’s strength,” moaned Ulf.

Silven watched incredulously as the accountant sank to the floor, defeated. He was a grim fellow, true, but never had he acted like this. “You’re forgetting something,” he started carefully. “War isn’t just about numbers. We have unlimited resources behind us. Immense artillery engines the like of which the world has never seen. Weapons to turn enemy against enemy. The means to flit from hill to field to forest in the blink of an eye.”

Ulf laughed then. It was a bitter sound. “Yet only the accountant grasps the true meaning of large numbers. Such forces cannot clash in sight of the world. Fifty thousand! The universe would tear open!”

Dread clutched at Silven’s throat. “I - I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.” Ulf’s eyes were haunted. “We dice with death today. Our forces will clash. We will sleep it out.”

Simitest twirled his moustache fretfully. “With no powers. No turnbows. No artillery strikes. Soldier to soldier.”

Silven shook his head. The room was spinning. “Sleep it out? Let’s march to battle!” He strode towards the door. Simitest held him gently by the shoulder. “Even if you get past the plagued ones.... you’ll freeze us all. Eternal rest, neither life nor death. A fate worse than defeat.”

Slowly, Silven nodded. In the years since the prison cell, he had learnt one truth about the world – accept or go mad. “Ulf, what are our chances?”

“None of those kingdoms have been at war in the lifetimes of their troops. So, with our added experience.... 42%.”

Silven blinked. He hadn’t been expecting such a precise answer, nor one so low. “But the machine bows!”

“It can’t be done,” Simitest repeated soothingly. “They have to be seen to be believed.”

His eyes turned to Vilgrin, hovering at the edge of the fretful group. “Do we have Ostenwal’s levies?”

“I would have to consult-“

“Turnip and carrot pate!”

Vilgrin sighed. “Of course.”

For a moment, Ulf brightened. “43%”.

From across the room, Dasat let out a sudden wail. Servants were rushing forth with armfuls of blankets and pillows. Wordlessly, they laid out their comforts upon the hard tiles of the hall. “This is ridiculous!” cried Silven suddenly.

The others were already bedding down. “I warn you – sleep,” said Simitest sternly. “Or we’d be lucky to be taken by the plague.”

Silven ushered the nearest servant away with a whisper. Quickly, she returned with a tray of tiny glasses filled with a clear liquid. When he accepted his own vessel, the fumes made his eyes sting. Good. He waited while the others were served, desperately trying not to let his mind wander. Accept, or go mad. Accept, or go mad. Accept. His life wasn’t over yet. His world was still here. And 43% said it still would be when he woke up.

Around the room, things were moving. He raised himself up on one elbow, and watched as a dozen furry mice edged from their holes in the skirting board. “Hello, old friends.” They said nothing. Only watched, only waited. The one in a silken top hat locked eyes and winked.

He was powerless to stop them now. Instead, he raised his glass. “Against the odds!”

“Against the odds!” roared his friends.

He swallowed the fire and slept.