It took an entire day to hunt down the last of the Hornies. The children spread the news of my ascension to the throne, racing about the village, despite the warnings of the soldiers not to because of the possible danger of Hornies hiding in unoccupied chambers. The physicians failed to resuscitate Ishvoor. Though a Skhite ruler possessed two lives, apparently Ishvoor had died once decades ago from a stroke, and this was his second time.

The soldiers insisted that I should take up the residential chamber of the former king. I refused gently and just went back to my old chamber. I wanted to rest, exhausted from the day’s events. Some soldiers stood guard outside my door despite my telling them that was unnecessary. I asked them to inform the advisors and ministers to come to me for any discussion not before the following day. The only people I entertained were Nora and Nadir.

The couple was as surprised as anyone to see the crown on my head, which magically stuck to my pate even when I bent down, as though it was an inseparable part of me.

Nora and Nadir sported no less than a hundred small injuries over their united body.

“Did His Majesty himself give you the crown?” Nadir asked me.

“Obviously,” Nora said. “Otherwise the crown would refuse to sit on his head.”

“There was nobody else with us,” I said, “King Ishvoor was dying and we needed to seal the village at all costs. He gave me the crown because of the need of the moment. I am thinking that I should make someone else the king or queen. A real Skhite should be the ruler, not me.”

“No!” Nora said, and then she looked abashedly at me, as though she remembered that I was her king and she didn’t have the right to address me in high tones.

“Go on!” I said with a laugh. “Don’t make me feel odd, now that I am the king!”

“I mean,” Nora continued, “you are as real a Skhite as anyone else in this village. The erstwhile king himself made you a Skhite. It is up to you whether to remain king or not, but I would suggest you shouldn’t hurry handing the crown to someone else.”

Her words were logical. While I didn’t consider myself to be the most suitable candidate for a king but out of respect for the old king and out of respect for the crown itself, I should take the time to ensure that whoever I passed on the crown to was someone worthy.

“I will keep that in mind,” I told her, thankful for the piece of advice.

I had a fitful sleep that night, my dreams rife with headless Skhites. The following morning one of the single-headed young guards appeared at the door, looking at me with an expression as though he sought not to disturb me, but was forced by the circumstances.

“Go on,” I said, “speak what you have to say.”

“You Highness,” the guard began. I held up my hand.

“Please,” I said, “that feels weird. I am fine if you just call me ‘Vicky’.”

“But—”

“Please,” I said, and then I recalled I was the King and my word was the law in the village now. I needn’t request anyone. “It’s an order.”

“Um, Vicky,” the guard said uneasily, “the ministers have been waiting to speak to you. His Majesty, King Ishvoor needs to be buried and we need to hold a funeral.”

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“Sure, they can come in.”

Barely had I spoken the words that the guard was shoved aside and in poured no less than ten fat ministers, overloaded with jewellery from head to toe, their ornaments clinking as they rushed in.

The ministers began to babble ‘your highness’ ‘your highness’ all at once and I could hardly take in the rest of what they were saying. I raised my hand to quieten them.

“Please don’t call me ‘Your Highness’,” I said to them. “Just call me Vicky. I am happy with that. And it is also a strict order that everyone should follow. Now speak to me one at a time.”

The ministers then proceeded to tell me about the key issues that I had to address immediately, being the king. All the Hornies that were inside the village had been slain. There had been a number of casualties on the side of the Skhites too. Many were wounded or were in critical conditions. The dead fighters would have to be buried and mourned. And if the bodies of the Hornies were not disposed of, they would decompose and give way to foul smell and diseases.

Laying the old king to rest was another priority. Besides that, at some point the Skhites would have to sneak out of the village for food and water.

Then there was Evilese— the vital element that eviluns received when they killed players. When the hunting parties returned from successful expeditions they were required to deposit most of their newly acquired evilese to a reserve. The process was a bit gross, from what I heard, the evilese oozing out of the slick bodies of the warriors like sweat.

No hunting party of the Skhites would be able to go in search of players with the formidable army of Hornies standing in wait outside.

Like the food and water supplies, the evilese pool would only last a number of weeks.

The already large Hornie army was only growing in size as more of the horned demons kept arriving. They were now demanding some powerful object in possession of the Skhites and vowed to stay until the demand was met. The demand was not particularly valid because the Skhites had no idea what ‘powerful object’ the Hornies were asking for. That the Hornies didn’t bother to provide better explanations was an added inconvenience.

The problems were complex. Thinking on the issue of degrading corpses, my thoughts drifted to the cold chamber where Orka’s parents had been kept. I summoned Orka and his parents immediately. Once they came I asked if it would be possible for the bodies to be kept there.

“That is a brilliant idea to stop the spread of sickness,” Orka’s father, Lelok said.

“I can show the way to the chamber,” Orka offered, who had now fused with his wife Lori. “Everybody can get lost in those tunnels, but not me.”

So that was decided. The concern of the bodies was put to rest, at least temporarily. The families of the dead soldiers would want to organize proper funerals, but that was simply not possible in the present time. We were completely cut off from the rest of Dharti at least for a few weeks. The entrances, I was told, would eventually open on their own. Only then could anyone move out of the village.

I suggested postponing Ishvoor’s funeral, and to keep him with the rest of the dead soldiers. But the ministers strongly refused this.

“That cannot be allowed,” they told me. “We must bury him.”

“But where?” I asked. They didn’t have much of a reply to this. All the tunnels that composed the village were carved out of stone. There was not much soil, which would have allowed digging a grave somewhere. Then an idea popped in my mind.

“Why don’t we carve out a grave in the stone floor of the chamber of our late king?” I said. “And then we can seal the chamber for eternity. It will become a tomb for him.”

There was some opposition, but the ministers agreed to it. The same idea was not applicable to the rest of the soldiers. Hundreds had fallen during the surprise attack. There were a number of unused chambers in the village, but if every chamber was turned into a tomb then there wouldn’t be a lot of chambers left for future generations.

So it happened that the last rites of the former king were organized. It was a considerable amount of work even for the strong Skhites to cut the stone floor of the king’s chamber. But eventually it was done. Traditional rituals for the dead leader were carried out. It was a grim affair. The body of the late ruler was starting to give off a light unpleasant odour too. Weeping Skhites crowded outside the chamber and everyone wanted a last glance at the one who had presided over them for so long. A few whispered about doom. The corpse of a king brought morale down like nothing else. Finally the chamber was sealed off.