by Everson Cook
"What?" Jin asked clearly confused by the outburst.
"Nothing." Damon shrugged.
"Have you heard of the Ring of Ashmara?" Jin asked, deciding to forge ahead despite Damon's bizarre eruption. And, apparently, letting the fact that Damon had called him a Cave Walker go.
Damon, somewhat relieved by Jin's change in demeanor, racked his brain. He had heard of a lot of things: best ways to bed a woman without paying for it, best strategies for winning at a game of floggermoose, impressive things to do with a sword, but it turned out that the Ring of Ashmara was not among them. He shook his head "no."
"The Ring of Ashmara, legends say, was forged in the blood of the forefathers of the five kingdoms--"
"Who got left out?" Damon interrupted.
"What do you mean?" Jin asked. He tilted his head to the side. A look of confusion spread across his face.
"You said there were four fathers and five kingdoms. Which one wasn't represented?"
"No." Jin shook his head. "Forefathers. The original founders. The five sons of Calvereus."
"You should've just said it that way to begin with. A lot less confusing. But anyway, please continue..."
Jin's eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat.
"So... um, ah, yes, as I was saying, the ring was forged in the blood of the forefathers. This was done before each of them went their separate ways and formed their own kingdoms. Each of them drew a blade across the finger that represented their order of birth: Calvinius, Bardus, Antonis, Dantor, and Bob.
Damon opened his mouth as if to speak.
"The thumb was first," Jin said, anticipating Damon's question. "They dripped five drops of blood onto the coals of a giant fire. There was a threat coming from worlds beyond ours. The forefathers were hoping this would protect them should an outsider try and claim one of the thrones as their own. If that were to happen, the forefathers or one of their heirs were to retrieve the ring. The ring was said to possess the power to bring the throne back to the heir of whomever it was stolen from.
"Ok..." Damon drew the word out. None of this was making sense to him. It actually just sounded like a bunch of crazy talk. He was willing to roll with it though. He had heard plenty of crazier things spoken in the taverns and whorehouses. Usually as the night grew older and bellies filled of ale. Sometimes it was just a symptom of syphilis.
"So, why is it called the Ring of Ashmara?" Why not the Ring of Brothers or the Ring of the Sons of Calvereus or something? I mean, neither of those have the same ring," Damon paused and waited for Jin to laugh. When he didn't, Damon continued, "to it, but you know, something along those lines."
Jin nodded his head. It was a question that was to be expected. "Ashmara was the most powerful sorceress in the world. She was called on to perform the ceremony that entrapped the brother's blood inside the ring and infused it with power."
"Huh, that's pretty neat," Damon said.
"After the ring was created she had a vision that foretold the future. Through the vision she learned that eventually the brothers would go to war with each other. At that time, one of them would come to retrieve the ring. The power of the ring was so great that whoever placed it on their finger would be able to overthrow their brothers and claim all the kingdoms as their own. Ashmara knew that the brothers would not be able to quench their thirst for power. So, she took the ring and hid it."
"And you know where it is?"
"And I know exactly where it is," Jin said with a nod.
"Why would you tell me?"
"Well, Mr. World's Greatest Swordfighter, I'll tell you because it's what the prophecy told me needs to be done."
"Makes sense," Damon said with a shrug. "So where is it?"
"It is located in the Devil's Cave, deep in the forest of Blackheel. It is several days from here by horse. Longer by foot."
"Obviously," Damon said.
"It is guarded by Meridtora, a disciple of Ashmara. She is equal in power to that harnessed by Ashmara during the creation of the ring. She is beyond beautiful. Be careful where you lay your eyes or you could fall under her control."
"Beyond beautiful. I like where you're going with that," Damon said, clearly ignoring that last part. He was already picturing what Meridtora might look like. And from the image he conjured in his mind, Jin was correct. "Ok, so let's say I get to this Blackheel Forest. How do I find the cave exactly?"
"There is a dragon in the forest. The fire of the sun will light your path. If you are worthy. If you are truly the world's greatest swordfighter, you will be welcomed with open arms by my brothers."
"The Cave Walkers," Damon said.
Damon quickly realized his mistake and expected Jin to leap up again, but instead he just nodded. Damon looked around, waiting for some guards to jump out from the shadows and explain that he was being pranked. But they never came. The parts about a beautiful woman and a powerful ring did sound intriguing. The rest of it, not so much. Really just sounded like a bunch of gibberish that could ultimately lead to hard work. Or death. Still, Damon kept coming back to Meridtora. He had yet to find something that would prevent him from seeing a nice pair of breasts. Then he glanced around at his cell and realized that perhaps that was about to change.
Damon shook his head.
"This is all very fascinating, but look around you. We're in jail. We'll likely rot to death in here. And, on the off chance we did escape, we wouldn't get very far before the guards, or worse, the hounds, tracked us down. I'm not sure how this information helps me in any way," Damon said putting the full weight of his words behind the last two.
It was then that Damon's attention was drawn to the creaking of the cell door swinging wide open on its hinges. A guard, the impressively bearded one who had previously caught Damon and the princess, was standing inside the frame. Outside the cell, lining both sides of the hall, were several other guards of various heights, weights, and hairiness.
"Damon Arkon, you are being summoned before the king," the splendidly-bearded guard said.
6
Damon wandered into the outdoor courtyard followed closely behind by ten guards. There were nineteen others in the group whose lack of armor lead Damon to safely assume they were prisoners like him. Damon was the only one in the group though who had his wrists chained. He found this very unfair and thought that if the opportunity presented itself, he might let the king know how he felt about it.
It should've been pleasant being in the wide open space of the outdoor courtyard. Especially after spending the last couple of hours in the dank basement cell. The air was warm with a slight breeze that prevented Damon from getting too hot. The sun hung high in the clear blue sky. It was the kind of perfect day that Damon would've rather spent indoors drinking, gambling, or cavorting in bed with a female companion.
The screams were no softer out here than they were inside. And they were still the sounds of complete madness. The courtyard was packed. It was a standing room only crowd on the ground level. Some people sat, but it was really kind of obnoxious of them to do so as the act of sitting took up room that could've been filled by more people who wanted to stand. And they couldn't see anyway, what with all of the other people standing around them. Although it didn't stop them from thinking they were better than those who decided to stand and see what was going on.
On the outer ring, going up to the wall, were stands. There were people sitting there, too, which was perfectly acceptable.
The crowd parted like the legs of a wench who had been tossed a gold coin, letting Damon, the other prisoners, and the guards push through with ease to the front where the king sat on his throne. He was slumped forward, his chin in his hands, waiting impatiently. Next to him was his always present advisor, Tamyron.
King Glendorrys was the sixth king of Flenshorn. He was the only heir of the fifth king and therefore was the only one who could be the king after his father died. It was as it was written, although no one had been able to find where. And many had tried. None of the other citize
ns of Flenshorn were thrilled with him, and that included his mother. But it could've been worse. And in fact it had been, as the third and fourth kings had also been men of ill repute.
King Glendorrys wore the standard Flenshorn colors of maroon and gold. As did Tamyron. Whereas the king had light brown hair and was clean shaven, Tamyron had gray hair that was parted down the middle and curled around his jaw. He had a long gray mustache that met up with his hair at his chin. Maroon and gold banners fluttered in the breeze from the sides of the elevated stage where King Glendorrys sat upon his throne. Bunting that alternated between maroon and gold hung from the stands. A colorful court jester bounced and pranced in front of the stage, working the crowd into a frothing mass. The jester had a face only a mother could love and his had died at childbirth.
Suddenly, someone threw a tomato.
Damon saw it in his peripheral vision and stepped aside, avoiding it completely. The guard behind him did not. Probably due to the poor design of his helmet. It landed squarely on his armor with a loud, juicy splat. The remains of the tomato slid slowly down and landed on the ground with a gush. Those who didn't know better, might think the guard had been stabbed and was now spilling blood from his wounds. And there were a lot of people in the crowd who didn't know better.
The guard drew his sword. The man who threw the tomato pointed at the man standing next to him. That man, a jovial bloke with a pleasant disposition, was too busy chatting up an aggressively friendly woman to his left to see what happened.
That man died. He would never know why.
As did the man who originally threw the tomato. Only, he knew his mistake.
The woman would go on to live a long, but unfulfilling life. Always questioning what might have been.
From that point forward, no more tomatoes were thrown.
King Glendorrys held up his hand and the murmurs from the crowd died down.
"Friends, we are gathered here today to dispense some justice."
The crowd erupted in cheers, although none of them would consider themselves the king's friend. The jester jumped from foot to foot raising his hands above his head. A slight smile played across Tamyron's face. It didn't grow much larger as he feared what it might do to the skin on his oddly smooth forehead.
King Glendorrys remained stoic.
"We have people among us who think they can do whatever they want. It's sad really."
The crowd booed and hissed. The jester thrust out his lower lip and comically swung his arm's across his body, pantomiming a child throwing a fit.
Damon stroked his beard contemplatively and scanned the crowd for those people who thought they could do what they wanted. It was unclear to him why the crowd was booing, as those people sounded like the kind he would want to hang out with.
"They will learn that we don't take kindly to crime here in Flenshorn," King Glendorrys continued.
At that moment, a big smile broke across King Glendorrys's face. He settled back in his throne, ignoring the jewels that outlined it and that were now digging into his back, and crossed one leg over the other. He leaned over to Tamyron and, with his hand shielding his mouth, said something that was hard to make out with the crowd carrying on as it was.
Tamyron nodded and stepped toward the front of the stage.
"Please present Tiffinius Drake," he shouted.
There was a commotion to Damon's left. A large guard roughly shoved a tiny man forward. The man was in rags. His bald head reflected the rays of the sun. His eyes were red and puffy. Snot ran from his nose. He scurried to the elevated stage and threw himself down in the mud in front of it. Tears streaked down his face as he asked King Glendorrys for forgiveness.
"Please, sire. Please. I beg of you," he wailed. "Please see to forgiving me of the crimes of which I'm accused."
King Glendorrys kept his eyes on Tamyron, ignoring the man's blubbering.
"Tiffinius Drake is accused of a most heinous crime," Tamyron continued.
The jester pantomimed flapping his arms and thrusting his head back and forth. He then brought his arms up to this throat and began choking himself.
The crowd erupted in a mixture of groans and laughter.
"Cut off his dick," yelled a small child from the stands. The spectators clapped in appreciation of the child's enthusiasm.
"For your crime of," Tamyron turned toward the jester, "choking the chicken?"
The jester nodded.
"You are hereby sentenced to death."
"But the chicken was attacking my children," Tiffinius screamed. "Please, sire. I was just protecting my family."
Tamyron looked at King Glendorrys, who sadly shook his head.
"All decisions are final," Tamyron said with a lack of emotion.
King Glendorrys looked apologetically at the man on the ground below him. The man was curled up into a ball and crying.
"I'm sorry," he said without a hint of remorse in his voice. "But, all decisions truly are final."
A group of guards hefted Tiffinius Drake from the ground and carried him kicking and screaming to the killing table at the right of the stage.
There, a burly, emotionally-detached man stood. A black sack with two holes cutout for his eyes covered his head. He wore dark pants stained with the blood of hundreds of Flenshorn criminals and no shirt. His chest was hairless and white, as if he had never spent a moment in the sun. His stomach glistened with sweat. He held an axe with a very clean, shiny, and sharp blade. It looked to Damon as if it had been recently polished.
The guards pressed Tiffinius firmly down on the wooden slab. He quietly said a prayer to himself.
The burly man stepped over to the table. He raised the axe over his head and swung it down with all of his impressive strength.
A piercingly shrill scream escaped from the crowd as the axe hit the wood with a solid thump.
Damon searched the crowd and found the scream coming not from a woman, as he originally thought, but from a man who fainted not long after his initial outburst.
This was followed by more screaming and hollering from the spectators.
Damon stood on his tiptoes trying to catch the action.
The guards let go of Tiffinius who stood up. He brought both of his hands up to his still fully-attached head and exhaled a sigh of relief.
He glanced down at the table. On the red-stained wooden slab sat a hand that wasn't there before.
Tiffinius Drake stared at both of his attached hands, blinked twice and shook his head, and then turned toward the guards.
All of the guards looked back and forth at each other. They each slowly raised their own hands for examination.
Then one of the guards started screaming.
The burly man in the hood shrugged.
The crowd collectively grimaced.
The Flenshorn historian, a lanky man with a snow white beard that reached to his belly button, emerged from the crowd. He carried a board under his arm. He unhooked a scratched up wooden sign that stood by the killing table. He then lifted up the new, unmarked one. It read, "Days Since Last Accident."
King Glendorrys waved his hand and the guard was whisked off to the infirmary.
"Make sure to send that guard a gift basket of some sort," King Glendorrys said to Tamyron. "Something nice. But not too nice. We don't want everyone getting their hands cut off after all."
Tamyron nodded.
Tiffinius cracked a smile. He thanked the Gods under his breath and searched the crowd for his family.
He found them toward the top of the stands. His wife was crying tears of joy. His kids bounced up and down excited that he was still alive.
Tiffinius waved at them. His wife blew him a kiss. He acted like he was catching it.
Then, feeling a sudden pain, he looked down at his stomach and found a sword sticking out of it.
He dropped to his knees.
Tiffinius's wife gasped. His kids' eyes bugged out of their heads. Their mouths went slack. They stopped jumping for joy.
<
br /> A guard put his foot on Tiffinius's back and pushed Tiffinius to the ground. The guard tried pulling his sword out. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled. He tried twisting it loose. He sawed it back and forth trying to dislodge it, but it wouldn't give.
Tiffinius's wife covered her kids' eyes. She did her best to not throw up.
The guard waved over another guard, who also tried without success. Then they both tried at the same time and were eventually able to work the thing free.
King Glendorrys stood up from his throne. He pushed his hands down in a gesture requesting silence. The crowd quickly quieted. The guards stood still.
"Enough," he said. "Enough. Look at what's happening here. It's clear, right?"
The spectators looked at each other with confusion. It wasn't clear. They turned to King Glendorrys and waited for him to point it out.
"This man, this Tiffinius Drake," King Glendorrys spit out his name, "is taking attention away from everyone else, these criminals who are awaiting their fates, and placing it only on himself. Even in death he is selfish."
The crowd nodded slowly at first and then much more vigorously. It made sense now. Tiffinius Drake was a jerk.
"Let's get back to the task at hand, shall we?" King Glendorrys asked.
The crowd burst into wild applause. Except for Tiffinius Drake's family, who glumly exited the event.
King Glendorrys sat back down on his throne with a heavy sigh.
Tamyron, who had finished ordering a gift basket of fruits and pastries for the maimed guard, took his place next to the king. He resumed calling names.
Damon watched as Tamyron called out names, one after another. Snifferini Tanc, Denoridy Baltothus, Zigerus Floffel, and Flower Stemerik. With each name, the jester pantomimed their crimes. He acted out slitting his throat, stealing, adultery, and parading around naked while sober. The men would be brought before the king and beg for forgiveness, and each time the king would tell them that the decision was final. And with each name came the call from the young child in the crowd to cut off their dicks. Damon watched with befuddlement as over and over again the kid's face changed from hope to sadness as each man was left with their dick intact and were merely only killed.