Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

Reevin came forward; he had been standing near the crackling fire.

  Jan was about to leave. King Pallan looked at him and said, “Stay.”

  Jan made a slight nod.

  “You have news, Reevin?”

  The magistrate approached the king. “I do. Perhaps you should hear it from him.” He motioned quickly for a man to enter. “This is Farrus, of the village Daime.”

  The man clenched his hat anxiously. “My Lord; please forgive my boldness. Intrusion.”

  King Pallan turned to him. “What is it?”

  The villager, his head lowered, stammered, “I am just a simple farmer, like my father before me and my grandfather.”

  “Go on.”

  Farrus paused. “Last week, my cows became frightened and stopped giving milk. We began to see strange lights in the sky.”

  Reevin added, “Others have seen them as well, sire.”

  King Pallan became intrigued. “Oh, what sort of lights?”

  Farrus rotated the brim of his hat. “Strange, glowing orbs. They would appear and disappear.”

  King Pallan leaned to one side. “Oh, come on; you expect me to believe such a thing?”

  “But it’s true,” Farrus insisted. “I and the other villagers have seen them—and the shadow men.”

  King Pallan laughed. “I have not seen such lights, nor have anyone at the castle, and yet you stand before me and insist such things have transpired. None of my sky watchers have remarked such phenomena, and you insist on babbling fairy tales. And shadow men—what shadow men?”

  Softly at first and then more firmly, Farrus, with large hazel eyes, said, “Figures like men, all in black, coming and going in the forests, in the fields.”

  King Pallan challenged the idea. “Do you believe such things, Reevin?”

  Reevin remained silent.

  The fire continued to crackle in the background.

  King Pallan began to pace. “I cannot accept such a report.”

  Reevin interceded on Farrus’s behalf. “Sire, My Lord, these … phenomena, as you say, have been occurring around the kingdom for several weeks. Reports of many strange happenings are coming in. It should not be dismissed—”

  King Pallan snapped, “Why is this just coming to my ears now? What reports?”

  Reevin swallowed. “Recent; of these sorts of things.”

  King Pallan scowled. “Rubbish. All of it!”

  Reevin went to speak but was checked by King Pallan, placing his finger over his mouth.

  “I will not have such nonsense spread through the kingdom!”

  Reevin protested, “But sire—hundreds of people are seeing the same thing in many different places. At the very least, an official inquiry into the matter should be launched.”

  King Pallan, holding his hands behind his back and shaking his head lightly as he paced, responded, “Very well. You may launch your inquiry. I, for one, think the matter is nothing more than a bunch of scared and superstitious villagers with too much time on their hands, perhaps ale, for childish tales!”

  Reevin, with furrowed brow, answered in dying tone, “Right, sire.” He glanced over at Farrus to leave. “I shall notify the council of your decision. An investigative body will be formed.”

  Farrus left the room after bowing to King Pallan.

  “I shall hear no more of the matter.” He gave Reevin a stern look. “Hear? No more of the matter.”

  Reevin smiled coyly. “No more of the matter.” Bowing slowly, he hastily made his way out of the room.

  King Pallan quipped to Jan, “Rubbish—all of it.” He began to chuckle. “Shadow men … such poppycock. Have you ever heard of such a thing? And now, my lad—I shall go for a walk in the royal grounds. Perhaps get something to eat in the market.”

  Jan did not answer him but only bowed his head.

  King Pallan left the castle by a small stone archway known as the Gate of Thieves. This threshold stood toward the corner of the palace and at quite a distance from the main entrance, with drawbridge and moat. It was a portal of commerce, so the king had to sidestep numerous carts containing fruits, vegetables, and various wares. The merchants, though recognizing him as king, hurried about as they prepared to take their goods to market. The ease with which King Pallan navigated among his people and their apparent informality toward him gave the affair an air of unusual customariness. It was clear that King Pallan despised formality and rigidness, unless circumstances (rigid custom) dictated it.

  A short way from the Gate of Thieves, after exchanging many greetings and well-wishes with his citizens, he noticed a man seated on the ground with his back to the castle wall, drinking from a bottle. Gazing at the man with marked irritation, King Pallan complained under his breath, “Despicable man, drunkard—has he no shame?” Watching him imbibe his elixir for a few moments longer, with a shake of the head and a grumble, he crossed the small bridge over the moat and made his way down to Centre Street, the main avenue in Paladia just outside castle grounds, where the most prominent citizens had shops and various businesses.

  Approaching a fruit stand, the king stopped to inspect the seller’s wares.

  “Hello, sire—an honour for you to visit my fruit stand! See anything you like?” The merchant, a middle-aged man with frizzy grey hair and beady, milky, deep-blue eyes, searched his stand for the choicest fruit. “Ay! Here’s a little beauty, sire. One bite and you’ll be hooked! Sweeter than a dyanat but chewy like a gum, and with many a good thing inside for your marrow as well!”

  King Pallan smiled at the enterprising street vendor. “Oh?”

  The man handed the strange-looking fruit to his puzzled king, who smelled it. “Like cinnamon and guar.”

  The man bobbed his head with excitement. “Yes-yes-yes; and like mineor, too! My children love them; they’re only found in the Western district near—”

  “I shall take one, my good sir.” King Pallan smiled at the eager street merchant.

  “Ah! Quite so, my good king—our king.” The man became quiet and said, “You may have it for free.”

  “Nonsense! I shall pay double the price; nay, thrice for it.”

  The street seller nearly fell backward. “Ay! No! Too much for it, I should think, sire. Two davans, no more, is the usual asking price.”

  King Pallan scanned the bright-red, fuzzy fruit (in the shape of a large pear) with subtle pleasure. “What is your name?”

  “Heddar,” the man stammered.

  “All right, Heddar, here are six davans for your fruit. And I shall enjoy eating it on my way back to the castle.” King Pallan placed the light bronze coins before the astonished street seller.

  “Oh—quite so! Quite the haul this day! Mother will be quite pleased at the news. Bless your heart, sire!” Heddar shook his hand enthusiastically.

  King Pallan gave Heddar a slight bow. “I shall be off. Good day.”

  “And a good day to you and yours, sire!”

  King Pallan gradually made his way down the central road, occasionally trading greetings with his denizens going here and there on their errands and frequently stopping to inspect a merchant’s goods. After buying a strip of dried and seasoned meat and a small bottle of ale from two merchants, and strolling aimlessly for a while, he started for the castle. Remarking with hungry eyes the bright-red kannen berry he had purchased from Heddar, he said quietly, “And you I shall have later, after the evening meal.” He placed the fruit in a pouch in his robe, and tore off a piece of the meat strip with his mouth, following it with a gulp of his ale. “Aye … all is good.”

  Casually crossing the small bridge that led to the Gate of Thieves, he walked several blocks toward the inner gate, over against the watchmen’s quarters. Finishing the meat strip, he commented to himself, “Quite good.” After tossing the wax strip that held the meat behind him, he greedily consumed the rest of his ale, wiping his greasy hand on his robe.

  A voice from behind said loudly, “You.”

  King Pallan froze, bottle in hand. Turning around
slowly, he asked softly, “Who is it?”

  A woman, apparently in her late twenties, approached him. She was dressed in black; her shiny, shoulder-length black hair, which seemed to sprout from a single spot at the top of her head, glinted in the late-afternoon sun. “You—King Pallan—of Paladia!”

  The beer bottle slipped from the shocked monarch’s hand and shattered on the street. He pointed at himself.

  The woman came nearer. “Yes, you!”

  King Pallan’s eyes narrowed; he appeared to recognize her. “Be gone, witch!”

  The woman shot out both her hands at him, laughing. “You fool. Tonight, at the setting of the sun, eventide, your kingdom shall fall. All that you have will be forfeited.”

  King Pallan, snarling at the woman, whose pale face and emerald eyes seemed to betray great age, replied angrily, “Be gone—Benteen witch—away with your sorceries!”

  Cackling, the woman cried out, “King Pallan of the House of Pallan, the third, the foolish king of Paladia, has forfeited his kingship to the Overlords.” Giving the startled king a final penetrating look, she fled down an alley.

  Becoming unstuck after a moment, King Pallan ran to the alley, but the witch was nowhere to be seen. Muttering—“What was that?”—he had a look of alarm.

  Staring at the end of the alley for a time, he soon regained his composure. “Old hag. Witch. If I find—” He lowered his head slightly. “Still, though, what if what she said is true—will come to pass?” After his momentary reflection, he remarked rather sarcastically, “Pfft. Wench; a bunch of tripe. Benteen witches … a pity my father didn’t eliminate them from the kingdom.”

  Whistling a tune, King Pallan re-entered the castle, at times nearly bouncing as he stepped. Entering his royal chambers, he found his bed neatly made, the clock wound tight and ticking methodically, the candles freshly replaced and burning with white-yellow flames, and his night’s attire folded neatly on a chair by his bedside.

  Lifting his evening attire from the chair, he paused and mumbled, “Kingdom shall fall; what poppycock.” He peered at his reflection in the mirror over his dresser, mouthing, “Can it be real?” He shook his head vigorously. “No-no-no—I shall have that witch’s head—”

  Bennett appeared at the threshold to his room, clearing his throat.

  King Pallan stopped and swung around. “Ah! My good Bennett. Ever punctual, are you?”

  Bennett grinned, faintly. “As you wish, sire. May I remind, that the evening supper shall commence at six sharp tonight. It is the special celebration of the harvest.”

  “Ah, yes! And we shall be treated with the harvest moon, I should think.” King Pallan began replacing some of his garments with his royal evening attire.

  “Quite right, sire; the harvest moon. The Royal Society of Sky Watchers predicts it will be a rather large and orange one.”

  King Pallan finished buttoning up an undergarment. “I do not need those buffoons to tell me the obvious; I already know it will be a large and orange one. Pfft. Idiots. Will you help me pull this sleeve up? I can’t seem to—”

  Bennett approached the king nonchalantly, and in one deft pull, freed the tight sleeve from the king’s wrist. “That’ll do, sire.”

  King Pallan glanced at him with an expression of faint irritation and embarrassment. “How? Oh, never mind.” He rushed to put on the rest of his clothes. “Idiotic attire—how do they expect me to wear this outfit at supper?”

  “Tradition, sire.”

  “Pfft—tradition. My left foot. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather wear to evening meal than this ridiculous outfit.”

  Bennett noted calmly, “Your left foot, sire. The straps are undone …”

  King Pallan looked at him with annoyance. Gazing down at his foot with vexation, he observed that the straps of his shoe were indeed undone. He sighed most firmly. “What would I do without you, Bennett?” He fastened the straps with great impatience.

  “I’m sure you would get on just fine without me, sire. Just doing my duty.”

  “Duty.” King Pallan eyed him with suspicion. “I think it’s more than that, my good fellow. Ah. At any rate”—giving Bennett a smile—“thanks for the assist. All that you do.”

  “No trouble at all, sire. It is my pleasure.”

  “Speaking of pleasure—my dog—how has it fared?”

  Bennett wanted to roll his eyes but quickly restrained himself, stammering, “Ah, quite … not so good.”

  “What do you mean? Quite not so good?”

  Bennett coughed. “The dog ran most stoutly for nearly the entire race. Toward the end of the race, however, it injured its leg and fell to third. It should be noted that Morning Star finished the race most bravely, and its trainer, a Mister Howlynd, I do believe, insists that it will be back on all fours in no time, no time at all.”

  King Pallan slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Bah! Idiot dog! It was fated to win; all it had to do was chase the little bunny round the track! Now, what am I supposed to do? I’ve got nothing good to bet on. Blast.”

  “Ah, may I remind you, sire, Blue Bell—”

  King Pallan removed his hand from his forehead, red from the contact. He grinned and, gradually, smiled outright. “Blue Bell; yes, of course.” Swinging around, he commanded hastily, “Put me down for Blue Bell.”

  Bennett gave a slight bow of his head. “The usual?”

  King Pallan scrunched up his face and shook his head. “The usual bet.”

  “The usual; noted, sire.”

  King Pallan paced somewhat triumphantly before Bennett. “I feel good about that horse … when is the next race?”

  “Next week, on the following morrow.”

  King Pallan grinned avariciously. “Good. I shall reap the rewards from its winnings.”

  Bennett grinned faintly. “Right, sire.”

  “Six o’clock?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Good, I shall see you then, my enterprising butler.”

  “At six. Good then.” Giving a slight bow, Bennett left him for the royal kitchen, where the evening meal was being busily prepared.

  Having arrived rather early for the evening meal, King Pallan took a seat and busied himself cracking nuts. Various servants came and went as they set the royal table. Flicking the shells into a dish, he watched them come and go with apparent indifference.

  Lord Bymwhire and Lady Constance entered the room.

  “Ah, sire! Hope the evening finds you well.”

  King Pallan nodded to him as he munched on nuts at times haphazardly spitting the shells into the porcelain dish before him.

  Lady Constance bowed slightly. Holding spectacles to her eyes via a lorgnette, she remarked in a regal tone, “Quite a balmy evening; I think I should have a wet towel placed round my forehead. What do you think, Lord Bymwhire?”

  “Oh, quite the balmy evening, Lady Constance. Ring for the towel.”

  A servant entered and asked to remove King Pallan’s dish, which was nearly full of shells. King Pallan nodded quickly. The servant removed the dish and replaced it with a fresh one. “Sit, my dear fellows. I have quite the appetite tonight.”

  Lord Bymwhire responded heartily, “Oh, indeed, indeed, sire!” He took his seat at the middle of the table. “I am quite famished, myself.”

  Lady Constance, behaving as if the chair she was about to sit in was coated with poisonous sap, sat down with the utmost care as she viewed King Pallan through her spectacles with subdued delight. “Yes, indeed, sire. My hunger, I am sure, will grow as the evening gets on.”

  With a dip of his head, King Pallan manufactured a grin. “I am sure, my lady.”

  Lord Bymwhire asked, “And where is Sir Kiff this evening?”

  King Pallan responded, “Out on an errand.”

  Lord Bymwhire commented, “What a pity; he’ll miss the harvest feast.”

  “Oh, quite the pity, I should think.” Lady Constance adjusted her handheld spectacles as she craned her neck t
o inspect a bowl of cheran berry sauce being placed on the table by a servant. She put her nose up to it.

  King Pallan, after finishing a nut, cracked a smile and said, “Yes, quite the pity; his loss.”

  “His loss, indeed, sire.” Lord Bymwhire leaned over to Lady Constance to whisper something to her.

  Bennett entered unexpectedly and announced: “The evening meal is served.” He gestured quickly for the rest of the servants to finish bringing in the harvest meal.

  King Pallan’s eyes lit up; so did Lord Bymwhire’s. Lady Constance seemed to scoff at the lavish meal, as if it were a noxious feast for unruly gluttons.

  A sumptuous feast was placed carefully on the table—everything from roasted pheasant, pickled beets, garnished hens, and various dumplings to sauces and soups, sweet pies, cakes, cookies, and many other artfully prepared dishes that warmed the heart, brightened the eyes, and tickled the palette. King Pallan only gave a grunt, which was the signal to begin the meal.

  Lord Bymwhire remarked with delight, “Ah, the yams; terribly good, terribly good.”

  Lady Constance, with the most pretentious display of delicacy, sampled several dishes, betraying her earlier repugnance over the ostentatious meal. “Oh, do try the spiced lettuce, love.”

  Several guests came in—men and women of notoriety and rank. King Pallan hardly took notice of them and continued eating.

  Soon, the table was filled with guests; the raucousness of their eating and conversation could be heard a corridor away. King Pallan did not seem at all interested in joining his guests’ banter, his dinner companions seemingly accustomed to their host’s aloof behaviour.

  “Quite the contrary, I think—right sire?” exclaimed a youthful lord named Berrand.

  King Pallan raised his eyes as he crumbled crackers into his soup. He nodded to him, wearing a faint grin.

  A prince by the name of Cassius, a member of the royal inner court, offered a light reprimand. “I am sure the king will form his own opinion on the matter, Berrand.”

  Berrand, blushing, answered in a low tone, “Right, sir.”

  Cassius turned his attention to King Pallan. His right arm resting on the table, he said, “Which reminds me—have you, sire, decided upon the Eragate matter?”