by Daniel Fox
He stuck the bird bits into a pocket up his long black sleeves. "Who did this?" he asked. The jester shrugged. "Were any left alive?"
Yes and yes again. The jester stood back, curtsied most prettily.
"The princess is still alive? Was she there? Did you capture her?"
Yes and yes and no.
The wizard stomped his foot in anger and slapped Rotter. The jester's head, held on only by thread, went tumbling off into the corner. The body groped around, hands twitching. "Why not?" said Bodolomous.
The jester mimed it all out. Someone had been protecting her, shooting a bow and arrow. Was it a guard? No. A knight? No again. Are you… hoeing? Yes!
"No!" bellowed Bodolomous. "Not the farmer! Not that farmer! That hoeing had better be code for legions of knights. On horseback. Really big horses. Clydesdales. Because I swear to you if it was that turnip-digging…"
The jester joined his hands together, wiggling fingers, wiggling thumbs. Bodolomous looked to the wall. A puppet made of shadow twisted, turned, and became a wolf howling at a shadow moon.
"The King of Wolves? Well, that's certainly better, isn't it? Much more proper, having a king as your competition. Could hardly raise my head in public, evil public, if I kept getting bested by some hick fresh in from the fields. But a king, ha!"
Bodolomous turned and strode off down the hall. Rotter's hands found his head. He picked it up and hurried after the wizard. "The Wolf King, my nemesis. I will have the princess, oh yes. Over your dead and humiliated body. And then the world will know and fear my name!"
He turned the corner and called back over his shoulder. "Let's get some ghosts in here if we can, eh? Evil, people, think evil!"
That's how it occurred to Bodolomous that you're only as good as your competition.
***
The Castle Wolf was a place of business. It was stern, not pretty. Solid, not inviting. The blocks of its walls had been carved one at a time out of solid grey rock and been laid with the thought of keeping unwanted guests out, not inviting friendlier guests in. The Wolf kingdom was the last of the human kingdoms before the civilized world disappeared into the wildness of the goblins, orcs, harpies and all such other fiends. This was a place where everyone believed all of the old dark tales, or at least believed that even the most outlandish stories carried at least a kernel of truth at their core. This was a place where everyone always carried a weapon.
Claramond was walking her rounds. The Wolf Kingdom had long ago done away with the idea that only men could serve as soldiers. There was just too much ground to cover. Anyone of any age who was willing and able was allowed to take the tests and swear their oaths. There really weren't any damsels in distress to be found in those parts, practicality had far outstripped romance in this borderland.
Claramond would certainly be considered pretty by you and I, but there wasn't much about her that one would point to and call ladylike, especially not in any sense that Willuna would recognize. Her hair had been cut short to fit under her helmet, the skin of her hands was rough and calloused. There were scars here and there on her body, rewards from lessons learned the hard way. She did own a dress or two, but it had been a long time since she'd had any occasion to wear them.
She was making her usual rounds. She was a sentry of the castle itself, a position that showed she was found to be trust-worthy and solid of character. It was something of an honour among Wolf soldiers, receiving a position like that, but Claramond had a not-so secret desire to get out where the real action was, patrolling the fogs that marked the border into the dark places of the world. You could only circle the same buildings so many times without getting a little bored. There wasn't even anyone for the sentries to talk to, Wolf soldiers had been spread so thin as of late that sentries now had to patrol solo, instead of with partners or groups.
Round and round she went. She wondered how many times she would have to make this sweep before she started wearing a groove in the ground. The carved stone of the ground was grey, the stone walls were grey, even the sky was overcast and dreary. Everything was the same as it ever was. Except for the scraping sound coming from the Family Wolf's tomb.
The entrance to the crypt was set to the very side of the castle's courtyard. A projection of stone stuck out from one of the walls of the keep, its entrance always closed by two thick and heavy wooden doors. A key was usually necessary to open the lock that dangled from a chain that went from the handle of one door to the other. There was only one such key, kept by the chief steward of the castle. Someone had bypassed the need to talk to the steward; the lock sat on the ground, bubbling and melted by some kind of powerful stinking acid.
Claramond instantly drew her sword. The Wolf Kingdom had never been the kind of place where people tried to pass off bad noises as "just the wind". Almost all of the time if something hinted at trouble then there was in fact trouble to be found.
Next to the entrance of the crypt was a heavy box, its body made of stone, its lid of wood. She opened the box and grabbed one of the torches lying stacked inside, lit it in a nearby brazier. She looked around to see if there was anyone else nearby to aid her, or at least to go and find her another guard, but like it always was as of late, the courtyard was empty. She decided she would just go to the bottom of the stairs and take a look around, but wouldn't head into the underground maze without backup. There was something going on, she had no doubt; she just didn't know if it was the kind of something she could handle on her own or not. She was, after all, a Wolf soldier, and there were no better trained fighters in the world. If it was just an especially daring grave-robber or two trying to take advantage of the lack of guards Claramond was sure she could handle them herself.
In she went. Her feet scraped against the cold stone stairs as she went down, one rough step at a time. She held the torch ahead of her, sword ready in the other hand. The stairs were tall but narrow, nobody could get past her without her seeing them. The air was damp and chilly here. She felt a bit sorry for all those past kings and queens who had been laid to rest here under all this stone. She was a farm-girl, and when her time came Claramond wanted to be laid out in the open , under green grass, beneath blue skies.
A heavy thoom echoed out from below. Claramond stopped. Listened. Looked back at the entrance where she could see nothing but the grey skies overhead. Claramond would never admit to being scared, not even to herself, but those clouds suddenly seemed sweet and inviting, soft in this hard place. She felt a bit of iron pride trickle out of her spine.
In that moment of waiting something ticked and tickled toward her out of the long dark belly of the crypt. The sound of a thousand beetles rushing toward her. She stepped back, stumbled on a hard stone stair. The noise was on her, around her… above her.
She thrust up the torch. From the ceiling above her faces with too-wide grins tilted down, laughing silently at her, moving like crabs up there on the stone. They rushed by her, carrying a burden between them. One moment they were there, stopping her heart, terrifying, and then they were gone out into the grey air. She hadn't thought to cry out.
She rushed up the stairs. No sign of the intruders. A stable-boy came dawdling out of the stables, carrying a saddle in need of repair. No, he hadn't seen anything. No, he hadn't heard anything. Yes, he would alert the other guards, fast fast fast!
Claramond returned back down into the quiet stone room under the castle and cast her torch around, this way and that. There were no foot-prints in the dust to show her where the intruders had been. Her hands shook, but her pride carried her forward.
The oldest kings and queens were laying closest to the entrance. The tomb had been expanded as the Family Wolf had reigned on. As she moved further into the cool of the tomb she travelled by generations.
And then she found it. The last closed casket had been opened, its heavy carved stone lid slid aside and dropped to the floor. That had been the booming sound. The carving of King Anisim's late father, as stern in stone as he had been in real life, ha
d cracked in half. There was nothing inside the stone walls of the sarcophagus.
The late king's body had been stolen.
This was how, eventually, King Anisim would learn that someone was out to make this personal.
Chapter 9
They had found an inn. After all that had happened it seemed the warmest place in the world. By the time they had reached the little roadside village the sun had been well on its way down, and Idwal had feared they would have to sleep in the open, vulnerable and exposed.
Anisim had money and had purchased them all simple clothes. The clothes were so ordinary that Willuna had at first thought Anisim was buying them rags. Anisim had thrown his reeking armour off into the nearby woods. Alone as they were, he thought it best that they travel unknown, giving their enemy less chance to find them. Willuna had objected, of course - all the adoring people they were sure to meet would happily help them. Who were they to deny her people the chance to mingle with someone they held as beloved? Anisim had overridden her objections, putting the princess into a foul mood which she promptly directed at Idwal. Somehow, as always, this too was also his fault.
They had stopped just at the edge of the village and taken turns washing off the smell of their escape from the Castle Owl in a creek that ran close by. Willuna had chided the king, warning him not to peek. Idwal wasn't sure, but Willuna had sounded like maybe she wouldn't have minded the king stealing a glance or two.
So now the two men sat in the common room of the inn. Willuna had gone off upstairs to her room to "repair" her new dress, even though Idwal hadn't seen anything wrong with it.
Idwal let the everyday sounds soothe him. A healthy fire crackled in the fireplace. Men laughed over a game of darts. Mugs were knocked together as villagers wished each other good health and long lives. This place was normal, this place was good.
Anisim drained his mug, ignoring the heavy admiring stares from the women who worked and sat around the room. He pointed at Idwal's mug. "Another?"
"Oh, no thank you. One is my limit."
"So," said the king, "this turnip of yours. Just how big was it?"
"Bigger than a pony," said Idwal, blushing, "but not so big as a horse. May I say, I'm surprised a warrior, er, a general, well, what I mean is, a king-"
"I do have a lot of titles, don't I? But while we're travelling," he lowered his voice, "in disguise, I'd prefer it if we left off the 'Majesties' and 'Graces'. Anyway," Anisim sunk back into his chair and rubbed a hand over his face, "despite all the titles I've really only ever been one thing - my father's son."
"It's not what you wanted?"
"Now that you ask me, I don't think I was ever really allowed the time to want anything of my own. I can't remember if I had a childhood hero… isn't that strange? My father's lessons, you see; I can tell you who made a sword by the balance and feel of the thing, but I haven't the first idea of how to bake bread. Or how to paint a painting. Play a tune." The young king sighed. "It must be pleasant, the growing of turnips. Perhaps one day if I can put a stop to these gruesome robberies I'll take a farming lesson or two from you."
"I think you'd make a splendid farmer."
Anisim smiled. Some ladies off to Idwal's right nearly fainted away. "Really?" said the king.
"Oh absolutely. If nothing else we can use that ugly mug of yours to scare away the crows."
The king roared. Others around them turned to see what was so funny. They joined in Anisim's laughter too, even though they had no idea what the joke was about. Idwal was beginning to see it, why people thought so highly of the young king. Idwal wasn't yet ready to invite the king to take a peek at him while he was bathing, but he thought if he had been the kind of person who needed leading in battle, Anisim would be the person he would most like to have at the head of the charge.
The king wiped laughter from his eyes. "The joke wasn't even that funny, was it?" The king chuckled again. "I must be tired. So, what about you farmer? Is the grass greenest where you live? Do you have everything you've ever wanted?"
"I suppose all I've ever wanted is to not want anything." Idwal dropped his eyes to his half-empty mug. "My parents, you see, they had fought for the king, Torquil I mean and, well… They settled down, but I suppose some of that… fire? Is that the word? Whatever it was, I guess they still had it in their blood, and it never truly cooled down. Not all the way, anyway. So one year when I was still very young, once the harvest had been brought in they sent me to a neighbour's for safekeeping and off they went. They said they would be back in a week."
"What happened to them?"
"An adventure, I suppose. A sally-forth. Never heard from them again."
"I'm sorry. And what about your blood, Idwal the farmer? Is it completely cool?"
"What? Me? Oh, ice cold, I assure you. Absolutely." Idwal ran his thumb around the lip of his mug. "Although, now that I think on it, maybe there's a chance, I mean ever so slight of course, that it might be nice to have a young maiden look up at a body with some of what the princess-"
And then the princess herself was there, standing over their table. "I look dreary," she sighed, obviously expecting the men to leap over themselves to prove her wrong. Truth be told, she didn't look dreary at all. She did, however, look very odd. She was scrubbed clean, skin pink and healthy, hair now completely lacking bits of suet and potato peels.
But her dress, her simple honest dress spun of good honest wool had been, for lack of a better word, decorated. She had found some flowers somewhere and poked their stems through the weave of her neckline. She seemed rather proud of the effect. But instead of looking like decoration it looked like she had just won a horse race. More flowers were speared through the wool here and there without balance or symmetry. It looked like someone had assaulted her with petunias.
Now before your go wagging your finger at the young lady, we should take a moment here to understand Willuna. Girls born of royal blood were bargaining chips, married off to cement relationships with other kingdoms. It had pretty much been Willuna's job to fish for compliments ever since she was a child. How many of you have been working since you were three? Being attractive had always been her life's work whether she'd liked it or not.
The problem was that she had always had a lot of help. People had dressed her, taught her how to move and what to say. There was barely a thought in her head that didn't come from someone else. Unfortunately all those assistants had recently ditched their princess in favour of being statues, so she was suddenly on her own. She was vain, yes. She was petty, certainly, and had an incorrect and unfavourable view of common people. She bounced from grief to joy to anger and back again in the blink of an eye. But it must be said that she was only trying as best as she knew how to get along in the accident of life, just like the rest of us.
Unfortunately it wasn't enough. Anisim rose, and Idwal could tell from Willuna's face that her joy rose with him. It was obvious that she thought she had finally gained the right kind of attention from her perfect man. But instead of complimenting her, the king brushed past her and strode over to happily greet three soldiers in Wolf coats of arms who had just made their weary way into the inn.
Idwal felt bad for the young woman as her shoulders slumped, making her flowers bob and jiggle. "What do I have to do?" she said, and dropped down into a chair.
"You look very, um, clean," tried Idwal, but the princess didn't even seem to hear him. She just stared at the table top, her head drooping down.
Anisim strode back, grave purpose in his step. Anisim the wistful young man had been replaced by Anisim the king. "There's been news from the Castle Wolf. It… they took… Suffice to say that I don't think it will be safe for you there anymore Willuna. Farmer, you must swear to me you'll watch over her."
"Him?" said Willuna.
"Me?" said Idwal.
"I have no choice but to return to the castle, but I won't bring Willuna into that danger. Its walls have been violated. Considering what happed at the Castle Owl, who knows what
will happen next? No…" The king paused, rubbing his handsome chin while he thought. "Take her to that village of yours."
"I will if you say so," said Idwal, "but it is just a village. And barely that. There's no walls. No watchmen. We don't even lock our doors when we go out."
"Who would think to look for a princess there? Go quickly and quietly. Go with my thanks." The king shook hands with Idwal. "Good luck. She's your burden now."
Before Willuna could say another word the king was gone, out the door with his men. Hurt and abandoned, she turned and looked at Idwal with scathing contempt that he felt go right through his skin. "My champion," she said. "A useless peasant who was bested by a scarecrow of a miser. I feel so safe now."
Idwal had thought he was used to the princess' jibes, but before now he had thought it all somewhat impersonal, almost as if it was a royal's job to look down at her inferiors. But this latest salvo seemed all too personal, and much to Idwal's surprise, it hurt. He scraped back his chair and stood, staring down at his hands. "I guess we'd better get a good night's sleep," he said. "We've got a good long walk ahead of us tomorrow." Head hung low, he turned and walked away.
This is how Idwal learned that royals, for better or for worse, were human beings too.
Chapter 10
Everything was stupid. The dirt road was stupid. The sky was a stupid shade of blue. Stupid birds chirped stupid little songs out of their stupid little beaks. Everything was awful and nothing would ever be good again.
Willuna stomped on along ahead of Idwal. She refused to look at even the back of his stupid farmer head with its ridiculous tan that ended where his shirt began. Every so often the farmer would have to call out a left or a right turn at a crossroads because the princess had absolutely no idea where she was going.