And so it was in those early days before his death and resurrection that the Bogman was called by another name. Yet when his kin were slain and taken, there was no one left to call him by his birthname, and when he died and was born anew, his birthname was stripped away. Only the Voice that dwelled in the Everswamp remembered, and it took his birthname away from him forever and ever. And the Bogman mourned not the loss of his birthname, nor the loss of his kin, for the memory of his life before was naught but illusion. His only truth was power.
-The Legend of the Bogman
Holcort, Grackenwell
“You’re not making good on your threats,” said Teralt.
He stood in the doorway, not far from Kimbel’s bedside. The young man found himself in the horrid grasp of a nightmare, yet some part of him clawed desperately at the walls of his consciousness, trying to find an escape. He walked the eerie razor’s edge between the world of the waking and the sleeping, a limbo where dwelled the most hideous terrors.
“You think you’re such a fearsome king,” Teralt went on. His neck was a grisly, dried out wound from which it should have been impossible to speak. “But are you really?”
“I am the king of Grackenwell,” Kimbel whispered back. Willful as he felt in that moment, he could not raise breath into his voice. “Soon I shall be the king of the entire world. You are nothing but the ashes of a miserable sadist. Someday even I will forget you. And then you will be forgotten forever... lost to the Ashlands where you belong.”
“Your ambitions are many... your deeds so precious few.” He smiled with only his mouth, his eyes still dead inside. “No man has ever built a legacy on a foundation of talk. So you killed your father, the king. How revolutionary. No prince has ever done that, has he?” Now Teralt snickered with a mouth full of bloodied gums. “And then you slit my throat and burned me on a pyre. And what was I to you? Some powerful enemy on the battlefield? A foreign king who invaded your land? I was the jailer who whipped you. A sadist. A torturer! And you tortured me in return for a time...” He lifted his head, baring the wound across his throat. “...and then you slit my throat when I was too weak to fight back.”
“You deserved it,” Kimbel shot back weakly.
“Say I did. How valiant was it, though? Will the bards sing of your exploits, oh great King Kimbel?”
“I have half a continent under my control,” the king argued. “And the Archipelago. My soldiers are already putting those islanders to good work. The desert savages won’t be far behind. Great power is already mine—I will only grow stronger.”
“Ah, but what have you yourself done? Nothing. Those two nations, weak and fledgling that they were—your father conquered them, not you. I’ll admit that strangling your father to death in public made for quite the spectacle. Slitting my throat, I’ll even concede that I didn’t think you had it in you... There. Happy? But you’ve accomplished nothing since. You ordered the assassination of the Dridic queen, which might or might not succeed. Put that aside. Now you must finally prove yourself.
“Now the pendulum of power swings against your favor, boy king. The law dictates that you must kill the last living person who has known you since you were but a suckling baby. Your father’s dead. Your mother’s long dead. All you have left is Hane, your sweet old slave. Hane, who has broken Grackenwelsh law in defiance of your rule. It is not within your power to reject or rewrite the law. In a place like this?” Teralt snickered again. “The stability of the law is the only thing keeping this wretched land from devouring itself. It’s what keeps the slaves in line. No, I’m afraid there’s no wriggling out of the law—not even for a king.”
Kimbel struggled in his bedclothes, heavy and luxurious on cold nights, restrictive now, like chains on his half-slumbering frame. “If I’m successful... my naysayers will look the other way. The assassins will succeed. And if they don’t, I’ll... I’ll mount an—”
“Oh, you’ll mount an invasion, will you? Not likely. Your subjects are loyal to you out of fear, Kimbel. But all fear is short-lived unless you feed it. You learned that well with me, true. Your men obey your every command because they fear that if they step out of line, you’ll punish their disobedience, that five of their fellows will cut them down at your command.
“Now what happens if you refuse to punish disobedience? First it’s an old slave who refuses to work. You throw him in a jail cell, feed him bread and water. He grows even older until he finally dies in another year or two. Truthfully, his life is made easier for his insolence. Next, it’s a soldier who mocks you out of turn, not some frilly rich man, but a strong, armored soldier, one not so easily stricken or whipped into submission.
“Then it’s an entire battalion who rejects a battle command. They see no merit in obeying a boy king who would send them to their deaths, when the boy is weak and inexperienced anyway. And then it’s your entire army. And without the army at your fingertips, King Kimbel, why, even the Bogman might have had a hard time controlling much of anything. You’ll be overthrown in a coup, if someone doesn’t kill you in your sleep first. You’ll get the pyre just like me. The Garrotin legacy will die with you, in ashes, and every memory—”
“ENOUGH!” Kimbel screamed. He was on his feet, his bedclothes torn aside. A cold wind ruffled the heavy curtains at his open window.
Where Teralt had stood in the doorway, there was only empty shadow. The sound of metal grating stone echoed off the walls of dreams and dissipated as vapor in the air.
***
Kimbel broke his fast in the dining hall that morning in the company of Ulther and his other most trusted advisers. The air outside had grown warm and soupy, turbid with a thin white haze that seemed to blow in from the Everswamp. Cured meats laden with salt and spices and the bakery’s sweetest breads tasted like nothing in the king’s mouth. Nothing at all.
A scout arrived in the doorway of the hall. “Your Majesty,” he said, breathless, a boy the same age as the king and yet so small in his presence. “Forgive my interruption. A spying party in Dridon has just brought word of the assassination attempt.”
Kimbel perked up. “And? Is she dead?”
The scout bowed his head. “Your Majesty, I am sorry. All four assassins were slain on the road, only another night’s ride or so to the capital city. Butchered.”
Kimbel stabbed his knife into the rough-hewn wood of the table. “Ashes,” he cursed under his breath. “Very well, then. Get out of my sight. Now!” The scout obliged and scurried out like a startled mouse.
The king tented his fingers and saw the cautious movements of his advisers on either side of him. His pulse pounded in his throat.
“Your Majesty,” said Ulther. “My condolences for this news. I have—”
“Ease up, Ulther. It’s not as if I’ve just received word about a death in the family.” A bit of black humor made Kimbel snicker. He yanked the knife out of the wood and sheathed it. “So, the assassination failed. We’ll send a better team, perhaps a hundred this time. Have them come from all directions. Send them in with different plans of attack, maybe multiple waves, and... and...” His voice trailed off.
“Pardon my intrusion,” said another one of his advisers, “but might I suggest extreme restraint during court today. Blame the incompetence of the slaves, to be sure, but I fear this will prove to be a costly tactical misstep. Your generals will likely be most unhappy to learn of these developments, Your Majesty.”
“Let them throw their fits,” Kimbel answered with ice. “I am still the king. Nothing they say will change that.”
Court assembled that day and Kimbel had never felt more out of place on the throne. He’d never felt such a compulsion to defend it like some dog guarding a cut of meat from his fellow strays, so suspicious of even the most courteous glances from the generals and noblemen that poured into the throne room. Even the broken-nosed nobleman who’d badmouthed him once before seemed positively deferential. He still didn’t trust any of them. Adders in the grass, every last one.
Kimbel sat in what had been his father’s throne, twirling his knife blade-down on its axis against the cushioned armrest. He tried to swallow his fear; it kept bubbling back up like bile.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard by now,” he announced when they’d taken their places, “the assassination attempt against Queen Rhoda of Dridon has failed.” Some non-military men in the audience gasped, but whether in genuine surprise or out of decorum was unclear. Two of the generals stared daggers at him; on a more confident day, he would have had the other two punch their counterparts once in the gut to remind them of their place. But would the others even heed his order now? “Obviously, we must develop a new strategy moving forward.”
“Your Majesty,” said General Rigart, and Kimbel’s stomach dropped, “I would remind the court and my fellows that we advised you against this very same strategy at its inception, and you refused to heed our counsel. Now the South surely knows of our intentions. They’re likely preparing countermeasures as we speak. If I may be bold, I would venture to say that this was not the wisest course of action.”
“That isn’t bold,” said General Cadwynh, his orange beard bristling with outrage. “I’ll be bold. This was a fool’s gambit!” Half the court gasped. The hush that followed shamed Kimbel even more.
“Whatever we call it,” Rigart went on, “I will say this: It was not the Grackenwelsh way. Sending silent killers under cover of darkness? That was a mere step above poisoning our enemies. These means of warfare are dishonest, and need I remind you all what happens to liars in Grackenwell?”
“I would advise you to walk back your talk,” Kimbel said with the strongest voice he could muster. “I am the king. Your counsel is welcome. Your insolence is not. Need I remind you of your place?” He suddenly stabbed the Garrotin family dagger into the arm of the throne. The generals seemed unimpressed.
“Forgive my interruption, Your Majesty,” Ulther announced at the entrance to the throne room. He and two other guards carried a limp Hane, who would not even move his legs to assist them, stock-still and dead-weighted as a defiant child. “But we have a small crisis on our hands. The royal slave Hane has been inciting rebellion in the jail. He has sown defiance among his fellow prisoners, preached Trinitism—even encouraged the slaves outside the jail to refuse their work as well.”
“Will you teach him his place?” Teralt asked from among the generals. He grinned as black blood spilled out of the open wound in his throat.
“What did you just say?” Kimbel asked, his voice catching in his throat. When he blinked next, his vision was clear, and General Rigart arched an eyebrow at him.
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“I asked,” said the general, “if you would like court to adjourn for now. So that you can address the slave? Clearly, this uprising is a pressing matter as well. We wouldn’t want to overburden you.”
“Yes,” Kimbel replied, clearing his throat, his head swimming like on the day his father died. His heart was pounding. “Yes, please clear the court at once. We will reconvene... tomorrow...”
The noblemen and the lower-ranking military personnel obeyed at once. General Rigart lingered by the door, while General Cadwynh stopped the other two generals from leaving, muttered something to them. “I think we’re going to stay right here,” said the redheaded man, “and witness the sentence that our strong king levies.” He met the king’s gaze with a look of brazen defiance. “If any.”
Kimbel saw the hands of his generals hovering near the hilts of their weapons. He wondered what would happen if they all charged him at the same time. How many would he be able to resist? What would a knife do against their four swords?
“Good to see you again, milord,” Hane said with his stupid grin. “Why, they got me roughed up a good bit this morning, yes they did. Been causing all manner of ruckus in the jail.”
“You,” Kimbel grumbled, “miserable old fool. Ever a thorn in my side.”
“I had a dream of your mother last night, Kimbel. She was a beauty, that one. Hair blond as a sunflower, smile could light up a dark room, and kind, that one. She was kind, yes she was. Your mother—”
“Enough!” Kimbel roared at him. He grasped the hilt of his knife and pulled to dislodge it from the armrest—it wouldn’t budge. He tried again to free it with both hands this time, and when he failed, he let it be, lest he make a fool of himself. Or more of one. “I grant you a stay of execution, and this is what you do with it, Hane? Sow dissent among your fellow prisoners and slaves?”
“Not dissent, Kimbel, truth. Not so easy to hold the truth to yourself once you have it, like a flame in your very hand, yes it is.”
He couldn’t help but notice that none of the generals or guards, not even Ulther, corrected Hane this time like they corrected Teralt. Kimbel was on his own.
“It is proper etiquette to address me as your king, slave. But it is necessary to address me as your master. Not Kimbel. I am not some slave boy. I am soon to rule over the entire Stone Continent!”
Hane smiled placidly. “What did I tell you about power, Kimbel? How it’ll destroy you? Destroyed your father, yes it did. Madness and vengeance. And now look at yourself, boy.”
Kimbel shot up from his throne. “You ancient, deficient idiot! Are you touched in the head? How dare you speak to me that way? Boy?! You are not my father, filthy slave...” Something bitter twisted inside him in that moment, made his eyes mist. He remembered the day he first ascended the throne. “And even his ashes are blowing in the wind now. Or have you forgotten?!”
“Going to scream yourself hoarse, are you?” Teralt laughed from somewhere in the room. “Like some hysterical woman?”
“And you!” Kimbel snarled suddenly. “Where are you?” His eyes darted around, finding no one but Hane, the guards, Ulther, and the generals. “No matter...”
“You’re going mad, Kimbel,” said Hane. “Look at you. But there’s more to your story, there is. You ain’t the ugliness and pain your circumstances made for you. You’re more than that, you are. So are we all. We just have to rise above it.”
At this, the king stormed forward, standing face to face with his family slave and glaring down at him. The world bulged and blurred around him, and a single droplet fell from his misty eyes—he hoped that no one but Hane could see. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the old man’s neck. It was all for show; he didn’t even squeeze.
“Why,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “are you doing this to me?”
Hane’s brow furrowed sympathetically. When he spoke again, he matched Kimbel’s low volume. “I see it now.”
“See what?”
“The pain, Kimbel. You’re in so much pain, yes you are—”
“Shut. Your mouth.” Now Kimbel did squeeze a little, but only a little, only a reflex. Another tear rolled down his opposite cheek. “I can spare you, but not as things are. You have to do your duties as a slave. I’ll have to hurt you—perhaps break something. Or perhaps a bruise will do. And you’ll have to beg my...” His voice trailed off when he saw the slave was already shaking his head.
“You can do what you must, yes you can. But I will not do what you ask of me. Not anymore.” He smiled sadly. “I can’t control what you do, no I can’t. But I can control what I do. And my answer is no.” He leaned forward as if to share a secret. “It can be yours, too.”
Kimbel closed his eyes against the maddening scene around him. His generals, the men who swore an oath to carry out the will of the king—they were turning against him. All of Grackenwell would soon follow. He was able to survive his last execution by killing his executioner. He knew such an opportunity would never be afforded to him again.
When he opened his eyes, the room was pitch black. Fires burned throughout the room and illuminated the figures in the dark. He saw his hand around Hane’s neck. He saw his four generals kneeling before the throne. He turned back to the throne—saw someone standing next to it, someone with long hair the color of straw. His heart skipped a beat when he realized it was his mother.
“See? I can even bring her back to you,” said a voice. It wasn’t Hane, nor Teralt. It wasn’t anybody. Yet there was a familiar sound to it. “You only must let me, Kimbel. Your name is written in My book. You must choose.”
Kimbel blinked and the world was restored. He took his hand away from Hane’s neck, stepping back. He blinked again just to make sure that what he saw was really there. “I don’t understand,” he murmured. “I... I don’t...” He turned away suddenly, walking back to his throne. He paced in front of it. Kimbel tore at his own straw-blond hair, on the verge of hysterics indeed, just like Teralt said. He refused to shed another tear in the presence of his generals.
There had to be a way out. One that still garnered their respect, protected his throne. Some pitiable aspect of the old man stayed his hand. “You know what you have to do,” said the voice. “What you’ve always done. What all of you have always done since the Time Before Time.”
“What I’ve always done?” he asked meekly. He was ashamed of his own voice then. It was so small. So young.
“King Kimbel,” said General Cadwynh, “I fear we’ve humored you long enough. If something as simple as this is enough to break you, then the four of us must reevaluate your fitness as king.”
He glared at him. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” The burly man scowled at him. “I already knew you were soft in the spine, the way you blubbered in the presence of your father. Now you’re going soft in the head as well? Can’t even order a damn slave killed that disrespects you to your face.”
The sound of metal scraping stone filled Kimbel's head. His eyes darted to Havokond, the newly polished war hammer hanging at the right hand of the throne. There was the darkness come again, creeping along the edge of his vision, just like last time. “Soft, am I?”
“Kimbel,” said Hane, smiling, his eyes warm and damp and pleading. “It’s not too late to make a real change, no it’s not. It’s never too late. And I know something you don’t know, Kimbel. This is not how your story ends. I know it in my heart, yes I do. This is not your end."
“No.” Metal scraped stone. “It isn’t.”
The boy king hefted Havokond from the wall, its weight falling thunderously to the stone floor. He locked eyes with General Cadwynh. The legendary weapon was not so heavy once he got a good grip on the hilt. It was the first time he’d ever held it on his own.
He dragged the war hammer behind him as he walked across the throne room. The sharp blade of the hammer scraped the stone floor, kicking up little orange sparks as he went, filling the entire chamber, perhaps the whole castle, with the earsplitting sound of metal grating against stone.
He grinned at General Cadwynh. “I’ve made my choice,” Kimbel said softly. “And I want you generals to remember this. Remember it as long as you live.” He lifted Havokond high above him and brought it crashing down on Hane’s head.
The old man collapsed at the first blow. General Rigart blinked, took a step back. Kimbel raised the war hammer a second time and brought it down to meet its mark. Even General Cadwynh gasped, little flecks of crimson staining the orange and gray of his beard. The boy king thought of the Archipelago.
Laughter, the bright, cheery kind, spilled forth from Kimbel’s mouth as the generals’ attitudes changed before his eyes. They looked ready to heed his words, backing away a safe distance and folding their hands respectfully at their sides or in front of them. Between his laughing fits, Kimbel ordered the preparation of an invasion force that would march on the northern border of Dridon within the moon, and for the slaves to clean up the mess he’d made and then draw him a hot bath in his bedchamber.
He laughed until midday, until the sun was high and burned through the morning fog with golden clarity. He laughed as he sank into his basin of hot water and ordered his slaves and even his guards to leave his presence, snickering at them as they departed, and he laughed until he heard his door close, and then he was alone in the dim dark with only fingers of daylight seeping through the cracks between his window shutters. He laughed so hard he couldn’t stop. He laughed and laughed until his abdomen hurt, until his voice was hoarse, and he laughed so hard he started to shriek with it, and he started to wail, and he did so until his breakfast came burning up his throat and spilling over the side of the basin, tasting sharp and scalding, and still his eyes darted to the corners of his vision where he was certain Teralt still lurked, but he never found him, and he wailed and moaned and begged for someone to come and help him, Ulther, his mother, his generals, even his father, someone, anyone, and no one came. The madness had him in its teeth.
Soon he grew accustomed to the feeling.
***
“My beloved child,” said the voice. “My chosen.” It was deep, powerful. It sounded at first like his father’s voice, but there was a metallic quality to it, metal and stone
He rose from his bed and crossed his royal chamber to throw the curtains apart, ready to greet the day. The morning was cool and gray with mist. He smiled.
“Let those who resist die screaming under our boots,” Kimbel said before his court. His generals and other officials were assembled, all in full military regalia. They stood at perfect attention. “Those who would disobey us will die. Then we will have bred a generation of dutiful slaves with the swing of a sword.” He grasped Havokond, which he now kept beside his throne at all times. “Or a hammer.” He turned to Ulther. “What of the rebellion, Ulther? Any word?”
He cleared his throat. “Since you put down that last rebel three days ago, Your Majesty, every murmur of dissent has gone silent. The slaves are working harder than ever.”
King Kimbel nodded. “Bring me the Secret Ledger, Ulther.”
“At once, Your Majesty.” His adviser fetched the chest where the tome was stored, and Kimbel opened it there on the throne, accepting a wet quill that he set to the page. He studied the most recent entries in the book.
Deliego Goches, Grand Emissary of Zan Vayonado. Tortured, drawn, quartered under orders of King Brynh Garrotin.
King Brynh Garrotin of Grackenwell. Strangled with whip by Prince Kimbel Garrotin, now King Kimbel Garrotin.
Teralt, ex-jailer, prisoner of King Kimbel, of Grackenwell. Throat slit by King Kimbel Garrotin.
Hane, rebellious slave, of Grackenwell. Skull crushed by King Kimbel Garrotin using Havokond.
Rebellious slave of Grackenwell. Ribcage crushed by King Kimbel Garrotin using Havokond.
Rebellious slave. King Kimbel. Decapitated using Havokond.
He wrote the next entry, one he had neglected to write when it was still fresh. Slave. King Kimbel. Groin, then limbs, then abdomen, using Havokond. He closed the book, returned it to the chest, and locked it once more.
“A man once told me,” Kimbel mused, “that a wise man knows his place. But what is wisdom if that’s all you have?” The court was spellbound to his every word. “The Ashlands are full of wise men. A wise man does know his place, and it’s on a pyre. A great man...” He twirled Havokond blade-down on its axis on the stone floor next to his throne, the hammer practically weightless in his great strength. “A great king knows no limits to his place in this world.” He rose to address his rapt audience. “My story does not end here. No. My story begins in Dridon. My story reaches Myrenthos, Qarda, Xheng Yu Xi, the Great Unknown, and beyond. By the Bogman, my story will have no end. Every other nation will bow as a slave to Grackenwell! Together, we will take our rightful place as the greatest nation in this world!”
He raised his free hand high in the air, fingers bent and splayed to make the Sign of the Bogman. His audience roared with cheers and applause.
“Let us begin.”