《The King's Dagger: A Tale of Many Faces》


 The Captain of the Shrouded Company

    Seth twirled the knife in his hands, taking special care to avoid any contact with the blade''s strange steel. "To be honest, it doesn''t look like much."


    "Ahhh, ah, yes. Yes, I admit as much," replied the wisp of a man. "But...but I assure you it is exactly what you''re looking for. I went to great, yes, very great lengths in order to confirm its identity. That is...I assure you."


    Seth covered his amusement with a false cough. Teckins may have been the most nervous man he had ever met. Beside him, Jeveen sat with fingers steepled over her knee, staring the man down with a singular raised brow. "Very well then. Here is your payment." Seth reached into a thin pocket hidden away on the inside of his leather jerkin and pulled out a shiny white disk. He paused, then twirled it between his fingers. Light from a tallow candle sitting atop a small table reflected off the spinning coin. "You''re absolutely sure this is the King''s Dagger?"


    The question hung between the two men like a noose, both understanding its purpose. It was a question that ended with a shit-filled-ditch and an expertly carved throat if the answer weren''t wholly, completely, and unequivocally true.


    Teckins shivered slightly as he answered, but nodded. "Yes...er, ahem...yes. Absolutely sure."


    Seth held his gaze for a moment longer, letting him squirm, and then flicked the coin to the appraiser. Teckins fumbled the pearled gold for a moment before clasping it inside his sweaty palms. A twitchy smile tickled the man''s face as he stared at the currency. "Are you really planning to...to¡ª"


    "You may go now, Teckins. Should I need anything else from you, I know exactly where to find you."


    The stray dog of a man quickly bowed, tucked the payment into his satchel, and walked backwards out of the room with a mumbled, "Th-thank you, sir¡ªmy sir, er, farewell."


    Seth listened to the man click and clack his way down the hard wooden steps and out the door. When he heard the door shut, a great sigh of relief escaped his mouth and filled the hollow silence that had built inside the room.


    All that time for this.


    "It really doesn''t look like much," echoed Jeveen, eyebrow still in its balconied position.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    An insignificant pattern on the handle. A steel that seemed almost pale. But that was it. He''d probably not give the blade a second look had he passed it in Devil''s Market.


    "It''s perfect," he replied.


    Seth peeled his eyes from the dagger and looked out his window at the dense cesspool of a city. Jeveen, knowing his thoughts, glanced at the window and said, "This is what we''ve been waiting for, boss. You did it."


    "We did it."


    "Maybe so, but the rest of the Company are out there waiting in some shit tavern fighting and drinking and Sellek knows what else." She scratched at her temple with a dirty fingernail. "You never wavered. Never lost hope."


    That familiar ache welled up in his chest, like a breath of smoke he couldn''t release. "Lost some good ones along the way though, didn''t we? Can''t blame them for growing some doubt after so long and so much missing."


    Jeveen ignored the comment. "But now we finally have it. Our ticket to freedom." Her eyes twitched as they narrowed. "To revenge. And in the ruthless hands of the Captain of the Shrouded Company, no less." She stood and clapped a calloused hand on his shoulder. "It''s all going according to plan, boss."


    Seth tightened his grip on the hilt of the blade and allowed himself an overdue smile. Jeveen was right. It was all finally going according to plan.


    But plans have a way of falling apart.


    From the corner of his peripheral, he noticed the shape of the candlelight''s dance of shadows alter ever-so-slightly. Unnatural, that.


    Seth spun with an assassin''s instinct and hurled the blade at the silent intruder. The witch burst into a spiral of black ash a moment before the blade could make impact. It stuck into the oak plank behind her with a dull thud.


    Behind him, he heard her swirl into existence and smelled the sulfur and burnt flesh that announced her rematerialization.


    Seth made to shout for Jeveen to flee, but his words froze as icy fear filled his chest. Or at least that was what he thought until the ice exploded into a searing fire. As his head bobbed, he noticed the large blade jutting from the flesh beyond his heart.


    "Well, shit," he coughed, feeling the witch''s weapon slide out of his chest. Seth fought to remain standing, but only managed to keep himself from falling fully prostrate, landing hard onto his knees. From far away, he heard the sound of Jeveen screaming his name, but could not for the life of him find the strength to answer her.


    Then Seth, son of Jareth, Captain of the Shrouded Company¡ªeyes staring at the blade he had gone through so much trouble to find¡ªthought of the men and women waiting for him at the tavern, and of the wife and two children he had buried. He felt a sad smile stretch across his face, sighed, and then he died.

 Jeveen and the Witch of the Cold Death

    The Captain is dead. The Captain is dead. The Captain is dead.


    These were the only thoughts that echoed in Jeveen''s mind as she wrenched the blade from the spot where he had thrown it. The blade they had spent so long trying to find. Spittle flew from her lips as she screamed and readied herself to attack, weathered instinct covering her fury and sorrow.


    And then everything went black.


    ***


    Yylgratha watched with cold calculation as the woman dropped, feeling the dark energy leave her own body and enter the foolish girl. For several moments she kicked and twitched. And then she was still.


    For good measure, she opened the corpse''s throat and let the rest of the woman''s lifeblood flow from her body. The infamous Witch of the Cold Death had seen lesser men pull stunts before, and she had paid for it dearly in the past. Better to be certain one was dead than to be surprised that they were not.


    When there was no longer any question of the woman''s mortality, Yylgratha stepped over her body and pulled the pale dagger unceremoniously out of her hand. It did not look like much, but it was not her place to question.


    A tiny pang echoed from a spot just above her belly and she rubbed at it with her free hand. A thin trickle of angry crimson leaked from the slight tear in her silk gown and onto her fingers. The witch had not been fast enough.


    She really was getting older.


    Yylgratha exhaled a slow Breath of Acceptance, steeling her emotions, and sheathed the blade to her side. Her patron would be pleased, and that was all that mattered. Nothing else.


    Not even the king''s clown, she lied.


    The witch lifted the candle that had betrayed her presence and gently set it on its side. The soft grey cloth that covered the wooden table began to peel and flicker as the flame tasted the material and found that it was good.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Her mission complete, Yylgratha entered the Place of Darkness once again. All the familiar horrors and nightmares assaulted her senses. Spectral creatures of such hideous arrangement called to her, mocked her, threatened her. Through the thick haze she recognized a form that resembled the man she had just murdered. He looked lost and sad.


    "Who?" he asked in a ghostly whisper that filled her mind rather than her ears.


    She ignored him as she had been trained, and made her way to another doorway. They were hard to find, and only one trained as she could navigate the paths towards them without being torn to shreds by the inhabitants, but none had been as quick to learn as Yylgratha. Few had survived long enough to learn.


    Her Rotted Eye guided her to what she was looking for. She emerged through the doorway, feeling the familiar agony course through her soul, and found herself standing in an alley just outside of the corpse''s apartment. The itch where the blade had struck her increased its fervor. She ignored it, knowing that such a scratch could never defeat one of the Darkened. The great Yylgratha had suffered much to gain immunity to all poisons.


    Why then did the earth sway beneath her? Why then did her vision blur and shake?


    The Witch of the Cold Death flung her hand out, catching herself on the grimy brick wall as her legs wobbled beneath her. The front of her gown was dark and slick from the point of the knife''s prick down to the hem sweeping against the ground. She tumbled into a heap of refuse, scattering rotted cabbage, moist bones, and several inconvenienced rats.


    A mysterious sensation began to flush through her system. It was not a pleasant sensation, though she assumed she recognized it well enough from the explanations of her masters, and the throes of her enemies.


    Yylgratha was dying.


    She tried to exhale a Breath of Acceptance, but her breath caught in her throat. No longer would she see him. No longer would he spin her his riddles. No longer would he steal from her the last dregs of laughter that the Witch of the Cold Death had in her broken, empty soul.


    Death is the cup from which all must drink.


    But that was not completely true.


    Yylgratha forced the Breath out and felt the strange calm enter her body. This was her death. This was the end. It could be much worse. She would die alone, yes, but she had been alone for most her life.


    As she entered the Place of Darkness, she realized how wrong she was. She was not alone. Waiting for her were hordes of angry, ravenous souls that had been denied their revenge.


    And this time, she could not ignore them.

 The Man-Boy

    The man-boy slid the dagger off of the woman''s corpse. Fresh dead, this one. The blade¡ªpale gray in color¡ªwouldn''t score more than a few coins, but at least it held some faded ornamentation on the hilt. He frisked the rest of the body to see if there was anything else of value he could take. Tallow from a soot-colored candle stub, a pocket full of cleaned chicken bones, a handful of a reddish dust he could not name, and a strange iron coin with a depiction he could not recognize.


    Pevrick pocketed them all. You never knew who was willing to buy such items, or at the very least, willing to buy the lies he told about them.


    "Tick," the man-boy whispered. "Tick."


    A faint skittering grew louder as Pevrick''s noble companion returned to his call. It climbed up his pant leg, leaving tiny pinprick holes where its claws poked through.


    Before it could make it to his shoulder, Pevrick clamped his hands around the rat''s chubby waste and raised him towards his face. Tick squeaked in protest, and gingerly bit at his fingers.


    "Stop that. If you want something to bite, bite this," he said, stuffing the pet inside a pocket of his tattered cloak along with a few of the chicken bones. Tick nibbled away, satisfied with the offering.


    The man-boy sheathed the dagger and gave the woman''s body a sharp kick for fun. Her limp body wiggled at the contact and slumped further into the refuse beneath her. He tried again with the same result and giggled to himself.


    When he was finally bored of the activity, Pevrick stepped out of the alley and into the night. He sucked in a lofty breath of stale, musty air. It smelled of refuse and fever-sweat. Ah, the comforts of home. But there was something else also. Smoke.


    The man-boy raised his head to billows of the stuff rising dark from the apartments just above. The flames had barely risen to the point that people were noticing, but notice they soon did. Screams and orders began to echo through the surrounding area as men made their preparations to beat the hungry beast with no heart, or run before they themselves were eaten.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Fires bring crowds, Tick. But fires bring guards." His tone was scholarly as he educated his simple companion. "That''s how Lily got her neck all noosed. I like my neck. I don''t want it noosed." As he said this, he curled his fingers around the rat''s throat and squeezed tight.


    Tick''s eyes grew wide and he raked Pevrick''s fingers with his claws. The man-boy released and let out a loud snorting laugh. "Don''t worry, Tick. I don''t want you noosed either!" Before the rat could flee, he stuffed another chicken bone into his pocket and clamped his hand over the exit. After some time, the rat went back to its nibbling. "That''s a good rat."


    Pevrick made his way away from the fire and through the maze of streets towards Devil''s Market. He traced dank alleys and slick rooftops for the journey, not wanting to chance a run-in with the town guard. As he leapt over the narrow gaps of the roofs, he dropped smooth river-stones. Mostly, the sound of stones meeting stones would echo back to him, but sometimes¡ªwhen he was lucky¡ªa sharp cry of pain or outrage would ring out from below.


    The sound of the crowd reached his ears before his eyes. An armada of homeless beggars crowded inside the hazy light of King''s Compassion. All of them filthy. All of them half-starved. "Just lazy," Pevrick whispered to Tick. "And stupid. The King''s compassion died centuries ago."


    Pevrick slipped down a particularly rusted pipe and sighed as he worked himself up to cross through the sea of worthless bodies, each crying out their chronic pleas in unending repetition to whoever passed by. As he made his way through, several of them broke routine to spit or hurl some choice curses his way.


    He ignored them, only returning their hatred with a thick yellow smile and maybe a finger or two. "They''ve no reason to be this mad, Tick. No reason at all. It''s not like I''ve stolen much from them." The man-boy dodged a weak jab from an especially slovenly beggar, tore the stick from his hands, and broke it over the man''s knee. The howls of pain and outrage that followed sent gentle tremors of true pleasure throughout his body. "They don''t have much to steal."


    "Fancy seeing you here, man-boy."


    The tremors stopped. And then started again, though for different reasons this time. He tried to run but was immediately yanked back by the scruff of his cloak. His ass found the ground seconds before introducing it to the back of his skull. Dull and sharp aches erupted from both spots as new stars made their way into his vision. Tick, ever-the-brave, leapt out of his pocket and skittered away, taking a chicken bone with him.


    Traitor.

 The Man-Boy and the Kingsguard

    "Not so fast, Prick," said the voice.


    "It''s Pevrick, you shiny shit," he answered, world still spinning as he did.


    That earned him a quick blow to the ribs from a steel greave. He sank further into the filthy ground and smelled blood. His own or someone else''s, he wasn''t sure. The sound of cheering and laughter rose from the beggar crowd around him and he made a mental note to come back with more river-stones.


    "Gods, you''re creepy. I never get over it." He felt Rhagre''s thick hands set him on his feet again, but the Kingsguard maintained a tight grip on his neck. The knight''s armor shined brighter than spit on silver and was edged with gold trim to mark him as special. Highborn. "Isn''t right for a grown man to look like a child. Isn''t right at all."


    Pevrick spat blood. So it was his. "You can thank my mother for it. She being the one who made me." Warm blood dribbled down his chin. "Wouldn''t know about that though, eh Rhagre? Coming straight out of the King''s arse and all."


    That one actually earned a laugh from the Kingsguard. Didn''t stop him from bouncing a shiny fist into the side of Pevrick''s head, though. His consciousness swam for a moment before snapping back to his current nightmare. More laughter filled the grimy cobbled street.


    "So, what do you have for me tonight?"


    "I''ve got feck-all, Rhaggie. Thieving from beggars don''t bring much reward." He shot him a skeleton''s grin and felt the blood slime coating his crooked teeth.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    With the hand not gripped around his throat, the Kingsguard patted the side of Pevrick''s cheek just hard enough to rock his head back and forth. "No, no. I don''t believe any of that, little curse. Pevvy the man-boy always has something worth having. Let''s see it, now. And Pev?" The man-boy wheezed as the air in his throat grew thinner. "Don''t make me ask again. Please."


    Rhagre''s grip released and Pevrick nearly slumped back to the ground, but caught himself. He hawked a large coppery loogie and spat it to the side. Then¡ªbecause there was nothing else to do at that point¡ªhe emptied the contents of his pockets onto the cobblestones. The soot-colored candle stub, one last chicken bone, a spatter of red dust, and a strange iron coin.


    The knife he had safely tucked away in the crack of his ass, a trick his dead father had taught him before he''d become just a voice in his head.


    Rhagre looked displeased. This pleased Pevrick.


    "And the ass," the Kingsguard said, not even looking at the man-boy as he reached down to grab the iron coin.


    "Sorry Rhaggie, that''s not for sale." Pevrick replied with less humor than he felt.


    Instantly a knee flew into his gut, doubling him over once again. He felt a quick swipe between his cheeks as the blade was removed and felt only relief that he had been savvy enough to face the sharp end outward.


    "You''re lucky I don''t use this to end your little life right now, Pevvy." Then he reached out and gently patted Pevrick on the head. A small bump instantly began to rise where he touched. "Though you do bring me such nice things."


    Pevrick, still bent with his hands wrapped around his chest as if he could hug the air into his lungs, only nodded obediently in response. As the Kingsguard walked away, the sound of his shiny boots were drowned out by the laughter of the homeless wretches that lined the King''s Compassion.

 The Highborn Kingsguard

    The sickly sounds of laughter from the homeless beggars of King''s Compassion echoed around Rhagre like haunting wraiths. A twinge of guilt formed a tight knot in his stomach as he left the man-boy to writhe in pain on the cobblestone floor.


    "Ye should''ve killed em, Rhag," Grey Jael said. The tall highknight leaned lazily against a stone wall and stared at him with vacant eyes as Rhagre approached. "Should''ve made an example of him."


    He forced a chuckle. "It wasn''t worth the stain on my greaves. Besides, the man-boy''s suffering entertains me. It would be a shame if that entertainment had to end," he said, hoping the lie didn''t sound as pale as he felt.


    Grey Jael persisted to stare at him with his cold, lifeless gaze. The eyes had been a gift from a witch, it''d been rumored, but Rhagre had always considered them a curse.


    "Aye," Jael finally said. "Aye, that would be a shame." His lip twisted into a knowing smirk. "Shame as well to grow soft. To grow weak. To forget the Old Laws." The words hung in the air like a stale fart.


    Rhagre felt his fists clench and forced himself to relax. He didn''t know. He couldn''t know. "Aye, that too would be shame."


    It may have been a trick of the night, but Rhagre saw something like shadows move inside those eyes. Those cursed eyes. And then Grey Jael''s smile was gone.


    "Don''t forget yourself, Rhagre. It''s a long way for a Highborn to fall." His tone was just short of a growl.


    Silence followed, though a silence that were anything but. "Is there something you want to sa¡ª?"


    "We should return. Shift''s nigh over." Without so much as a word or backwards glance, Grey Jael nudged himself off of the wall and began to walk towards the direction of Physiker''s Path. Rhagre watched him go, unsettled by his words. Unsettled by those eyes. Unsettled by his own actions.


    When he was sure his brethren was out of range, Rhagre pulled the man-boy''s iron coin out of the leather purse that hung at his side, slipped another iron coin and a copper beside it, and beckoned to a poor, raggedy child to come over. Fearfully, the little girl slunk her way over to the Highborn Kingsguard.


    He bent down slowly, one last glance to make sure Jael was gone, and said, "Make sure the iron gets to the man-boy. Do that and you can keep the copper. Try to keep both and I''ll know. Do you understand?"


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The girl''s eyes lit up with unequal portions of fear and excitement. She bobbed her head vigorously and clenched the coins tightly in her hand before running towards the direction of the unfortunate thief. Afterfact he thought it''d been best had he warned her not to speak of it, but the waif was beyond earsight before he had gotten the chance.


    Oh well. The smoke would rise where it pleased, as they said, and damn all the rest.


    Business done, he made his way towards the Halls. The labyrinth of interwoven alleys spurred off in several sporadic directions so that no defined path was evident. A critical tactic for the city''s defense, and a pain in the ass for anyone who had not memorized the maze''s roads. Rhagre had.


    As he made his way towards the castle¡ªfingering the shaft of his newly acquired blade¡ªthe poverty and desperation of King''s Compassion faded. Rickety shacks filled with filthy beggars tiptoed into respectable homesteads of hard-working citizens. Those same quaint homes soon grew into healthy mercantile establishments, and eventually crescendoed into wealthy estates elevating men and women born of riches or stolen into them. With each step towards opulence, Rhagre felt his guilt fade.


    He was Highborn after all, wasn''t he?


    "Anything to report from your patrol, soldier?" The Captain of the Gate asked.


    "Nothing but the usual displays of debauchery, captain." Same as any aristocrat inside the castle, only with less extravagance or pomp. "Just the petty crimes of the poor."


    The Captain placed his finger on one side of his nose and shot a pale green glob of snot out the other. It landed on the smooth marbled surface of the castle''s entryway. The gate guard sniffed and wiped the remainder away with the back of his hand. "Aye, filthy miscreants, all of em. It''d be just as good if the King made rid of the lot, I''d suppose. Best for the city."


    Rhagre only nodded pathetically.


    The Captain, sensing the conversation growing stale, nodded in return and stepped aside to let Rhagre pass. "Best make your way in then. The Bloodless will be starting soon," he said, rubbing his knuckles with the other hand. A strange serene look passed over the man''s gnarled face. "No matter how many times I see it, still chills my bones. Lucky we are, you and I. Would hate to be on the wrong side of him is all."


    "Aye. From now til e''er."


    "From now til e''er," the Captain replied as Rhagre opened the door.


    The castle was as lively and garish as it were most nights. Highborn from every end of the realm supped and drank together as maids and servants¡ªcursed with being born outside of royal bloodlines¡ªmade sure that each plate was full and each cup overflowing. Distractions were plentiful, and Rhagre avoided the notice of any of his companions as he made his way up the steps, down the highhall, and towards the solace of his chambers.


    Where she''d been waiting.

 The Kingsguard and the Wildflower

    The assailant sprung her attack the moment the door clicked shut. A heavy metal clang rang out as his back smashed into the oaken surface. Rhagre flung a gauntlet out to grab her but she pushed it deftly away and pinned it to his side. With her other hand, she ripped the steel helm off his head¡ªallowing his brown curled locks to fall freely to his shoulders¡ªand leaving his throat completely bare.


    He tried to defend, but the onslaught was vicious and indefensible. She planted her first attack upon the side of his neck, nicking his Life''s Vein. Then, she slid towards his cheek and hit twice in immediate succession before dropping to his mouth for the final blow, rendering him all but useless.


    Rhagre sighed. She smelled of juniper and fresh bread, and tasted of wild raspberry. "Aye, you win. I concede."


    She giggled as she removed her lips from his, her taste lingering for moments after. "I''ve missed ye."


    "And I you, my wildflower." He surrendered to another flurry of warm kisses, and then after some time, and with much restraint, gently pulled her away. "I did not expect you to be here tonight."


    "Nor I. The other ladies in the kitchen bid me go and surprise ye." Then, seeing the look on his face, she smiled and continued, "Worry not, Rhaggie. I''ve not told them of who I see. Only that he be handsome," A kiss. "And strong," Another. "And kinder than any man I''ve ever known." Much time passed in consequent manner.


    Or, then again, maybe no time at all. When he was with her time always tended to flow strange, as if her lips could remove the boundaries of past, present, and future. When her spell had ended¡ªmomentarily, no doubt¡ªthe question he had meant to ask her sprung once again to his lips. "Were you seen?"


    The girl sighed and detached herself from Rhagre''s embrace. "Nay, Rhaggie. No one seen. I was careful as a critter when I came through yer door. Honest." She tilted her head to the side and placed a milk-white finger to the side of her rose-red lips. "Though yer friend, the one with the oh-so-cold eyes, he were at the stairs when I were coming." Keyreth shivered. "Asked me why I weren''t in the kitchen with the other maids, but I made up a tale quick as a cat, Rhaggie!"


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    A slow trickle of icy cold crawled down Rhagre''s spine as she continued.


    "Told him I been scolded at. Told him I were in trouble fer spilling the summer soup. Told him I were sent to change the linens of the highknight''s beds." She grinned again and pulled her bottom lip low with that same finger. "I do plan to keep my word on that, ye know."


    Grey Jael knew. He knew not how, only that it were true.


    Those damn, cursed eyes.


    For a moment it froze him¡ªstill as stone¡ªand then a fire, deep in his gut, began to burn away the cold. "How long ago was this?"


    Shakily, she replied, "Not long, Rhaggie. Not more''n a moonstep. Why¡ª"


    "Stay here," he commanded. It hurt to see her shrink away from him, but he steeled himself. He could make up for his tone later, but if anything were to happen to her he would never forgive himself. "You''re not safe." And then, all of a sudden, Rhagre felt aflame with resolution. A lifetime of questions and confusion and hidden desires honed into a singular ecstatic understanding. He pulsed with the intensity of it. "I''m going to change that."


    She took a step back and raised a shaky palm to her mouth. "It''s he, isn''t it? The man with the oh-so-cold eyes?"


    "Aye, it is he." Rhagre saw on her face the gravity of the matter, and was thankful to see resignation as well. She would stay. He stepped forward and placed his hands on her arms, wondering if she could feel the heat through his skin. "I will fix this. Whatever I have to do, we will be together." He leaned in close, brushing her ear with his lips. "And damn the Old Laws."


    The girl sank in his grip, surrendered. A shaky tear drew a long line down her sweet-flower face. "Rhaggie. To the sun and stars, I love ye."


    "And I y¡ª"


    Rhagre was unable to complete his proclamation before her lips were on his once again. Time swelled and sank as the taste of her filled his mouth. Filled his mind.


    Seconds, minutes, hours could have passed and he would have sworn it was only an instant.


    But time was always a fickle thing on the lips of his wildflower.

 The Wildflower

    Keyreth''s fingers found the hilt of some small weapon. She pulled her lips off her Rhaggie, but let the subtle breeze of her magic linger as she slipped the blade from his belt. It were so very hard to concentrate¡ªshe near felt her hold slip¡ªbut she managed to cling to it like a kitten to canvas. Her master would be upset, no doubt. Tell her she weren''t ready. Tell her it were dangerous. But that didn''t matter now. "I''m so sorry, my love. I can''t let ye do what I know ye intend. Can''t let ye risk it fer me." He''d not hear none of her words, she knew, but it felt good to say them anyhaps.


    The magic held him still. Not far from a statue while it was on him. A beautiful statue of a beautiful man. "I''ll reckon this right, Rhaggie. I give ye my vow, sure as sunshine."


    She stared at his frozen figure, planted one more kiss on his lips-like-roses, and made to shuffle out his chambers afore her nerves could catch up to her mind.


    Some killing needed to be done this night.


    With each corner she turned she expected to find the man with the oh-so-cold eyes. Prepared herself for it. Her lover''s knife she held hidden under her shift, ready to sting. Ready to end.


    The Old Laws. The Old Laws. Rhaggie were right. Damn the Old Laws. And damn the King for all that mattered. E''en the thought were in her own head, she still felt a flush of fear for thinking it.


    She near toppled Hangie''s serving tray as she turned a corner, a feat that earned her a choice word or three, but pushed on, ignoring her.


    There''d been rumors about the oh-so-cold eyes. Curses from a demon witch. Eyes that could see, they said. Well Keyreth''s eyes saw well enough and if he wanted to see her, she''d show him.


    But he never showed.


    She made it to the door-with-all-the-colors, and hesitated. Knowing ye had to do something and doing it were two different doves.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    She pushed her way into her master''s quarters and found him in the exact position she''d expected him to be, which were to say that it were a position all but unexpected.


    He hung from the canopy of his bed, upside-downish, his legs hugging the wood posts. In his hands were a dusty old book, right-side up. His green and black speckled shirt floated below his mouth, but somehaps his fool''s hat stayed stuck to his head. The hearthfire gleaming in the corner made the shadows of his amber locks look as if they were flames of their own.


    For a few seconds longer he flipped through his pages, pretending not to notice her. Then, at last, he lifted his head (or, lowered mayhaps) and said, "Ah, Keyreth. So very glad you''ve come." He dropped his painted hand to scratch at a smooth pale chin. "I can''t make heads or tails of this book."


    Keyreth sighed, "Master, you''ve got it upsi¡ª"


    "Wait!" he exclaimed. "I''ve got it! It''s heads! Yes, definitely heads!" Then, with a flourish, the Jester spun the book several times between nimble fingers and then slapped his hands together, bringing it to a stop. The pages blossomed out like sun-lilies, but it weren''t a flower nor even words that sprung from the pages.


    In her master''s hands were a head¡ªmade all of paper and cuts¡ªeach detail like the true face of a man. How it looked just like her Rhaggie. Too much like him. She marveled at it for a moment longer and then collapsed at the doorway, the weight of the moment crashing down on her like storms. "Ye were right, Jest. Ye''re always right." Tears began to flow heavy down her cheeks and she did her best to stuff them back in with her palms. Afore long she could taste the snot that spilled from her nose, slimy and sour.


    She knew he wouldn''t stop her. Wouldn''t never stop her. Not if she cried herself to sleep. Not even if she cried herself to drowning. It were his way.


    She drew a strong breath through her nostrils and blew it out, puffing her cheeks like trickle-toads as she did. Once more she took her air and let it out. And then it were done. The tears had been spent. She''d no more to give than she''d coins in her pockets.


    Immediately, she felt a softness on her cheeks wiping away the salt and swim from her eyes. "They say that fish are born from tears, you know." His voice were like cinnamon and sweet milk. Like air afore a summer rain. "That''s why they never speak. They''re much too sad."


    Keyreth sniffed, and smiled despite. "What about happy tears?"

 The Wildflower and the Jester

    "Ah, happy tears," he whispered. Then he leaned in close. "Those become birds." Jester wiped the last tear from her redded cheeks with his finger, cupped his smooth, pinkish hands together, and then slowly opened them. A dove white as soft snow on Saint''s Day sat still in his painted palm, cooing ever so gentle. "Looks like they weren''t sad tears after all. Must be only that you''re in love."


    "I am," she said, straightening herself and nodding. "I am."


    Her master remained silent, bobbing slightly, his eyes unblinking. The hearth crackled and spat as a red-veined log crumbled into ash beneath the weight of another.


    She stared down into her folded fingers atop her lap. "It''s Rhaggie. Always been."


    Jester reached out, sudden, and pulled a piece of colored parchment from behind Keyreth''s right ear. The paper had been creased, crimped, and crafted into the form of a highknight, complete with puckered lips.


    "Rhagre, Highknight of the Kingsguard, Highborn of House Terial." Her master''s voice mimicked that of a Speaker-for-the-King. "Lover of late nights, lavish libations, and little lowfolk lady rumps."


    Keyreth blushed red as boiled beet. Jester only giggled and guffawed, then pulled a tab on the back of the paper toy that caused the puckered lips to poke out further. "Master, I¡ª"


    "He''s a catch that one. Not like the rest, is he?" Jester grinned. "Isn''t there something in the Old Laws about Highborn and low folk?" he asked, knowing damn well there were.


    "You know damn well there were."


    His grin widened. From his seated position, he placed his hands atop the floor and lifted himself until he were full heels-over-head once more. He held the wild tumbler''s pose, his eyes never leaving hers, then fast as fear fell into a cart''s wheel. Round and round her he went, faster and faster until Keyreth felt close to dizzy and then he flipped right over her head, landing just behind. Jester leaned in close to her ear¡ªthe second man tonight to do so¡ªand whispered, "Well damn the Old Laws, then, eh?"


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Keyreth felt another heavy sob choke the back of her throat. She breathed slow as sea-wind, steadying herself. "So...what do I do?"


    "You used your magic tonight, yes?" He were still behind her, but Keyreth didn''t dare turn to face him. She managed to squeak out "yes" afore her neck shrunk into her shoulders and her head towards the ground.


    Her master made no move this time to comfort.


    "Pray don''t fail to tell your tale and I will tailor this little failure." She could hear the smile on his lips as he riddled. Fool''s gold. What she''d done that night were wrong and she knew it. Magic always comes with consequence.


    She told her tale. He listened.


    "The knife," he said after she had finished.


    At first, she didn''t catch his meaning. "Knife?" she asked.


    And then the meaning struck her. She reached back for the pale blade she had stolen from her beloved and lifted her head. She''d not known when her master had moved¡ªhadn''t heard or seen him¡ªbut there he were, right in front of her. She placed the blade in his painted hands.


    He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and stowed the knife behind his back. "Priests and saints require prayer, but I consider payment fair."


    The words¡ªsilly as they were¡ªweren''t spoken to make her laugh. They were "deal words." A contract. It was done. Her master would take care of it. Take care of him, and his oh-so-cold eyes.


    Keyreth picked herself up from the ground, wiped the dust off her skirt, and bowed. Her Rhaggie would be safe, and that was all that mattered.


    From now on, her tears would become birds and not fish.

 The Jester and the Kings Sheath

    The moment his apprentice had gone, Jester burst into a fanciful jig. He had learned the dance in his childhood, or no, perhaps not. Perhaps it was another''s childhood. That part was getting harder and harder to distinguish. Nevertheless, he danced.


    The dagger he spun in his deft little hands and grinned as the lamplight flitted off its pale surface. Of all the luck in all the world, but of course he did not believe in luck. He was fairly sure of that.


    The witch was gone, and that was sad. As sad as when Poppet went missing, though Poppet were only a toy, so maybe more sad than that. But he had the dagger, and that was better. Better for them. Better for everyone.


    He sank into a sitting position in the center of the room. The blade he held in a hero''s stance, tip towards the ground, pommel in his hands. He cackled at the spectacle¡ªhe was no knight¡ªand then chastised himself for dallying. There was much work to be done.


    Jester sat for some time. Seeing and seeing and seeing. Sometimes seeing right and sometimes seeing wrong, but that was the trick of it, wasn''t it? Knowing the difference. He saw for so long that he forgot to stop and nearly lived another life-span. Lucky for him, his hearth got bored and began to spit. From it a curious ember traveled, landing itself atop his fiery hair. It fizzled, pulling him back from the Long Road where he''d lost himself not a few times.


    "You''re a fickle, funny beast, you know?" Jester spoke aloud. "But, as always, I am ever your slave." He drew the King''s Dagger, balancing it point-up upon his middle finger, and bowed.


    A knock, timid and precise, tickled his bedchamber door. Jester sighed and snatched the blade by the hilt. "If you''ll excuse me."


    He quickly swung himself back over the rails of his bedpost and plucked the book¡ªupside-down¡ªwhich laid atop his sheets. His first guest had not been in a sort to fully appreciate the gesture, but he imagined his next guest just might.


    "Ladies and gents, the famed, the frivolous, the fantastic, Master Pilep, the King''s Sheath!"


    The door swung open slowly. In its absence a frail boy just shy of seventeen stood with pale skin and disheveled hair. A fine breastplate of etched steel sat awkwardly upon his skinny shoulders and an expression of absolute astonishment was fixed upon his simple face. All of a sudden, the expression broke, and wild, braying laughter filled the room like fresh wind. A true smile, rare as it were these days, split the Jester''s mask at the sweet, gentle sound.


    When at length the visitor''s laughter subsided, he wiped the wet from his nose and asked, "Howdy-how you always know it be me? Howdy-how? Howdy-how?"


    "Hmm. I''m not sure I should tell you, Master Pilep. It''s one of my most secretest of secrets."


    Instantly, the guests'' brows furrowed and his lips shaped themselves into a sour pucker. The boy looked so much like his father, bastard of the King that he was, though a skewed portrait. Inside, however, he were an altogether different creature. "I swear criss-cross all over my heart. I do! I double do!" The boy''s eyes seemed never to catch Jester''s own, preferring to aim themselves at the ground, or the wall, or at Jester''s curled boots.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Jester placed a hand across his chest in feigned surprise. "Criss-cross? On your heart? Truly?" He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "I''ll have to see it to believe it, Master Pilep."


    Pilep nodded his head seriously in response. He raised one hand and carefully signed a full X across his heart. Jester made no mention that it were on the wrong side.


    "You speak true, then," he said. "Alright, you must tell no one of this. You understand?"


    More vigorous nodding.


    Jester descended from the bed and approached the boy. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands to the side of the boy''s head and whispered, "You have very smelly farts."


    Pilep''s shoulders rose as he lifted his hands to cover his mouth, and then, like springwater in a dry desert, the donkey laughter rose again from the boy''s lips and filled the Jester''s ears and heart.


    This close to the boy, Jester noticed now that a faint red circle surrounded Pilep''s left eye. By the morrow, the bruise would be black as night.


    A storm of fury rose sudden to his chest. For a brief moment Jester felt rather than saw the hearthfire behind him begin to pulse, and forced himself to calm. "It''s close to supper isn''t it, Master Pilep? Shouldn''t you be in the King''s Hall for the ceremony?"


    At this, Pilep clapped both hands to his cheeks and began to shake his head back and forth. "I lost it, Jesty. I lost it. I lost it. Lost as lost and lost. I were with the twins at the well and mean-mean Tilly poked me in my nethers and it...it went droppity-drop like stones below." His shaking became more furious and tears began to pour hot from his eyes. "The King is gonna be so mad. Mad as mad and mad. He''s gonna make me go droppity-drop like stones below, Jesty. Like stones!"


    "Master Pilep?"


    Sniff. "Yes, Jesty?"


    "Would you like to see some magic?"


    The change was immediate. Pilep stopped mid-sniff and clapped his hands together in excitement. A trail of clear snot dripped into his smiling teeth, though he did not seem to notice. "Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes, Jesty! Jesty-jesty, just the besty! I want magic. I want magic and magic." His joyful expression waned and he took a subtle step backwards. "But, but please don''t turn me into a mouse. I don''t want to be a mouse, Jesty, okay? Not a mouse."


    A laugh escaped from Jester''s throat. One he had not created or forced. It was so unexpected that it brought with it another. And then another. When at long last it came to an end, Jester felt more whole than he had remembered he could feel.


    "You have my word, Master Pilep. No mice. Are you ready?"


    Reassured, wonderment returned to Pilep''s face and he clapped his hands together once more in anticipation.


    Jester made a great show of it. He tumbled, he twirled, he twisted and tranced. He uttered words without any true meaning¡ªthough this he knew were not true¡ªand cast sprays of colored smokes pulled from hidden sleeves.


    Pilep''s eyes¡ªnow fully focused¡ªfollowed his every movement, seeing all and understanding nothing. So it was with most people. The boy was so enthralled, so mesmerized, that he did not even flinch as the dagger sprung from Jester''s hand, wisped through the air, and pierced him directly in the chest.

 The Kings Sheath

    He heard the thuddy-thud as it hit. His eyes stayed on Jesty, though, not wanting to miss anything. Jesty just looked at him. Big smiles. Long smiles. He loved Jesty. He never said it. Couldn''t say it. But Jesty knew. Then he felt it. Felt the weight on his chest.


    When he looked down, a pale blade was sticky-stuck on his criss-crossed heart. But maybe it wasn''t that. Maybe it wasn''t pale. Maybe it was bright and silver and pretty and looked just like the other one. Just like the one that fell droppity-drop like stones below.


    Pilep''s teeth stretched big and big and his body wiggled side to side as he clapped at the magic. "Jesty, Jesty! You found the knife!" He unstuck the knife from his armor and tap-tapped the tiny hole it left behind with a skinny finger.


    "I found a knife, Master Pilep," said Jesty. "A very good knife. It''ll do what it''s supposed to." Jesty''s face looked sad as snails a split second, but then it snapped back to its normal norm.


    "Thank you! Thank you on rye and wheat and barley!"


    "The ceremony is starting soon. It is time you get going."


    Pilep had forgotten about the ceremony again. Always forgetting. Always bed-wetting, his mother''s voice echoed in his head. "Okay, Jesty. Okay."


    As he turned to leave, Jesty grabbed his shoulder. Pilep turned around and yelped as Jesty took a big Jesty-fist and punched himself hard in his own Jesty-face. He held it with all itchy-ouches for a couple moments, and then he looked back up, smile and all.


    "This is called mirror-magic," he said, pointing at the red spot starting on his eye. "Now I look just like you!"


    A droppy tear leaked from Pilep''s eye¡ªthe one that wasn''t all stingy¡ªthough he could not say what brought it there. "I don''t think that''s magic, Jesty," he stated.


    Jesty sighed. "Maybe not, Master Pilep. Maybe not. But maybe it''s the most powerful magic I have."


    Pilep''s brow furrowed but he nodded and smiled. Jesty wasn''t all right in the head. A little wibbly-wobbly, but it weren''t his own fault, so there was no sense in making him feel all sour milk over it.


    "Alright, off you go then," Jesty said, leading him from the room. "And Pilep?"


    "Yes, Jesty?"


    "Go easy on the beans from now on, okay?" As Jesty shut the door he plugged his nose with one hand and waved his other in front of it, pretending to hold his breath.


    The door shut, but Pilep kept giggling the whole way towards the King''s Hall. Jesty the besty. Besty, indeed. He held the knife he''d been given as he walked. So silly-strange. He''d been sure he dropped it down the well when mean-mean Tilly poked him. Been sure he''d watched it fall. Like stones, he''d thought. But here it were, all perfect and pale and¡ªno wait, silly Pilep. Not pale. Not pale at all. It was bright. And silver. And just exactly same-same as the one before.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    He were there when Pilep arrived. Leaning against the wall. Standing guard by the East Door. No color in his eyes. Never any color in his eyes. Grey as grey and grey. Pilep wondered if it hurt when the color came out.


    "Where ye been, simpling?"


    Pilep lifted his hands up and tried to wave them around as Jesty had. "I been learning magic, Jael. Don''t make me cast a spelly on you!"


    Grey Jael turned to spit, not taking his grey eyes off him. "Right. Well, King''s going to be needing that little piece there soon enough," he said, nodding at Jesty''s knife. "I''m surprised you ain''t lost it agai¡ª" Grey Jael did something funny and funny, then. His no-color eyes went big and big as he looked at his old knife. Then, he let out a loud puff of air like he were a bellows.


    It would have made Pilep laugh if Grey Jael weren''t so scary and scary.


    "Where''d you get that?" asked Grey Jael, voice all crackly like creek stones.


    Pilep swallowed. "It...it''s just what been given to me. To me before. Long before."


    Pilep sunk backwards and squeaked all mousy as Grey Jael rushed at him. "Don''t lie to me!" he shouted as he grabbed the front of Pilep''s breastplate and yanked him forward.


    Not those eyes. Not those eyes. Pilep''s head swiveled and swiveled as he tried to escape those eyes. "Please don''t kill me! Please don''t take the color out of my eyes! My papa. My papa. The King will..." The King would do not for nothing, though, and Grey Jael knew it, and Pilep knew it, and everyone knew it, so Pilep stopped talking. Just swiveled.


    For long and long Grey Jael looked at him with his angry snarl and his color-gone eyes. Then he surprised Pilep a second time. He laughed. Though it sounded to him more like charcoal burning.


    Grey Jael released his grip. Pilep took three quick steps backwards and away from those eyes.


    "I guess it don''t matter, do it?" Grey Jael asked. "Don''t right matter at all where it come from." He laughed again, more charcoal burning. "Well, simpling. I imagine they''ll tell a sweet feckin tale about you now, won''t they? Right then, get along to it. The King is waiting."


    Pilep nodded his head and skittered past Grey Jael towards the chamber door. As he passed, Jael''s eyes followed his knife, and Pilep thought he saw shadows in them. Dark shadows.


    The door shut heavy-heavy behind him. People. Lots and lots of people and people. Some of them drunk and some of them servants, but all of them loud and loud and loud.


    Pilep hated this part. With the people and the loud and the lights and the blood. All of it he hated, but this was what he was made for, his mummer had told him, and this is what the King wants, and if the King wants it then the King gets it, and the King loves you, and porridge comes in, so no fooling around and no dawdling and bring me my porridge when the King gets it to you, okay Pilly, he loves you, and don''t mind the bruises ''cause they''re just teasing you, he''s just testing you, it''s no big deal, now bring me my porridge quick!


    Pilep scratched away his droppy tears and stepped up to the table at the front of the dais. The King was busy taking bites and bites of slimy chicken, but Pilep stood and waited for his papa to see him.


    "Step back, boy. I''m eating."


    Pilep couldn''t stop his hands from shaky-shaky-shaking. "I...I, umm. I have your knife, King...er, pa¡ª"


    A great hairy hand swung out and hit Pilep on his left eye. Large sprinkle-stars flashed and flittered as his head went wibbly-wobbly and Pilep realized that he was on the floor. He also realized that his face was slicky-slime with turkey grease. Pilep hated dead turkey. He much preferred them alive. He much preferred all things alive. Even the King with his mean and mean.


    Pilep did not scratch away his droppy tears this time. As he felt the King remove the knife from his belt, he saw a face at the side-chamber door. The best face. A Jesty face. Jesty smiled at Pilep¡ªall big and big¡ªand waved wild with one flimsy hand, telling him without words to come. And Pilep was happy and happy that he did.

 The King Immortal

    "Gods, this damned old tradition," muttered the King as he lifted the blade from the idiot boy.


    "What was that, Your Eminence?" the eunuch asked. His livery this evening was enough to give a blind man nausea. Too bright colors and polished jewelry.


    The King sighed. "Nothing, Balznov. Nothing at all." Gods, but this had all grown so old. Immortality had not exactly been the bargain he''d once thought.


    "Shall I begin?" asked Balznov.


    "Do what you will," he replied with a weak wave of his hand as he settled back onto his throne and proceeded to devour his leg of turkey in front of the raucous, sycophantic crowd beyond him.


    "Oh, it''s starting then, is it?" squealed the highborn woman beside him. His "mistress of honor" for the evening festivities, as was tradition, though nothing about the woman whispered any hint of honor to the King. Especially not her nose; the beak would have fit better on his hunting falcon.


    "It''s starting, yes," he sighed. He scanned the crowd, curious as to why the witch had not yet arrived. Was she visiting with that fool jester again? Her interest in him was beyond his comprehension. Mayhaps the Jester would need to be put down to save the dark woman from distraction. The King knew intimately how deadly distraction could be. For others, at least. A grin split his bristled face.


    Balznov swiftly swung into a booming speech that began with the tale of the King Immortal''s perilous journey past death and led into his valiant¡ªbut humble¡ªexaltation to sovereignty. The crowd clapped and shouted along as if they had been right beside him at each event, though none of them had even been born.


    "¡ªa hero, destined to unite this land! Destined...to bring peace!"


    "Absolutely awe-inspiring," Hawk Nose proclaimed, waving her glass and spilling a spatter of red wine on her rather open blouse. "An undoubtable hero of ages...and here. You. Are." She nuzzled closer to the King, wrapping one arm around his, and snapped her fingers to have a servant refill his mug.


    "What an absolute load of shite," he replied with a bitter laugh. "The story the eunuch weaves is nice enough, lass, but it''s about as close to the truth as a shiny tird is to a pile of gold. I doubt very much whether those I slaughtered considered me a hero at the time, nor even the men who fought beside me. But peace can only ever be bought by blood, and that''s the truth of it." Thinking of all those that had paid brought a thirsty smile to his lips.


    "Mmmm...mm. Yes." Hawk Nose replied with glass pressed tight to her lips. "Yes, mm. Exactly, my King! Gold and peace. Blood and truth!" She swayed as she spoke, her words mere distractions from her drink. The King did not mind. It was not as if the woman had anything of interest to say sober. Best that she maintained her cup instead of his attention.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "¡ªand so, tonight, for any godless souls that may be among you," Balznov slowly waved a bejeweled finger towards the crowd, "any insidious idiots who would dare question the sovereignty of the King, a sign¡ªnay, a warning shall be given as it has been given the same for centuries!" His voice crescendoed, punctuating his speech with a sackless octave. The audience below exploded in anticipatory cheers; hatchling chicks with their mouths wide open, waiting for mother to vomit up their meal.


    The King sneered. "Spoiled, sniveling cowards, every one. They cheer for stories of war and death, but not one has felt the rush of bloodlust on the battlefield. Not a one has sated the thirst of their blades with the cries of their enemies." He pulled his arm from the grasp of his "maiden" and began to finger the hilt of the dagger. "If Margery were here, she would run down there, piss on their plates, and challenge a table of them at a time, you know. Gods, when did people become so boring?"


    The King lifted the blade and stabbed it into the table, wedging it deep within the rough wood. Foam sloshed from his mug and quickly ran down the grain onto Hawk Nose''s skirt. The vapid woman''s face scrunched in drunken confusion as she looked down at the small puddle in her lap, then back up to her glass, and down again once more. Mystery unsolved, she settled for finishing off the remains of her cup and setting it clumsily beside the stuck blade.


    His son''s blade. His bastard. Weak, like all the others he had fostered over the centuries.


    They obviously took after their mothers.


    Balznov, finished with his gilded lies, nodded to the King and approached Hawk Nose. "My lady, it is time for the ceremony to begin." He extended a bony hand to her.


    "Must I?" she whimpered, aquiline nose pinched tight at the nostrils.


    Balznov grinned but his eyes did not. "You must."


    She swiveled her head towards the King and whispered with words heavily laquered in liquor, "I''ll be back. Don''t miss me too much." Then, with a steady grip on her glass, and an unsteady gait down the stairs, the eunuch led her away.


    It had all grown so old. Year after year. Decade after decade. Century after century. It was all his now. From sea to snow and mountain to meadow. And they were all his. All of them.


    But none like Margery. None like her.


    Balznov returned alone, though the King could see Hawk Nose sitting at the table just below the dais, eyes eager and half-lidded with wine.


    "Your Eminence?"


    The King sat a moment longer, staring out at a kingdom he cared quite little for. "Get off the stage Balznov," he said finally, rising from his chair. The hall went immediately silent.


    He took several deep breaths. In and out. In and out. In and... "No silent bow from any foe can fell the King Immortal!" he shouted, a slow hatred pulsing in his chest with each word.


    A sharp thwick rang out from a window slit inside the walls of the hall. The head of the arrow dug its burrs deep into the flesh beneath the King''s throat.

 The King Immortal and The End

    He looked down at the object sticking out of his throat. It was strong cedar with swan feathers for the fletching. No blood fell from the source of the wound. Breathing out, slow and strong, he ripped the shaft of the arrow from his chest. The crowd gasped in awe. He dropped the arrow to his feet.


    "No silver spear will tear the soul from I, the King Immortal!" His voice vibrated with each syllable, reverberating throughout the hall. Hawk Nose and the rest of the table were all leaning away from him now, his "mistress of honor" now trembling.


    Several heavy steps pounded in quick succession behind him, and then a long silver spear slid through the center of his ribs. Fear and awe mingled across the faces of the crowd, even those who had seen the ceremony before. Cowards. He could kill every man and woman in here and still have time for a moonlit swim.


    The King placed both hands on the head of the spear, snapped the head off with a single twist, and pulled himself from the spear''s shattered shaft. The fury was on him now. Wild, afire. He felt his fingers tighten around the base of the spearhead, not letting it drop.


    The soldier behind him did not have the chance to be surprised as the King twisted around and buried its point into his guts. Screams rang out inside the hall as blood showered the dais. Hawk Nose took several seconds to realize the red dots mottling her dress were not spilled from her glass, and then she too began to crow.


    He turned towards them, mad grin gleaming upon his ancient visage. Aye, this is what he needed. This is what he desired. After all these years of peace. All these years of boredom. Alone, surrounded by a kingdom.


    Mayhaps he did not want to be King. It had been Margery''s stupid dream anyway.


    All he had ever wanted was the war.


    Balznov''s face turned a shade of goat''s milk. He teetered backwards, slipping past the edge of the dais, and crashed into a table below.


    Spit flecked the corners of the King''s mouth as he let loose a carnal shout, battle-joy racking his trembling body. His audience fled towards the back of the hall, away from their ruler.


    Away from their King.


    The boy''s blade. He snatched it from the table and held it towards the crowd. It looked faintly familiar to him, but he had seen many knives in his time. They were all good for one thing. And only one thing.


    He sucked in air¡ªa tempest in his lungs¡ªand let loose. "No man alive with sword or knife can fell the King Immortal!" The words fell slow, twisted. He plunged the knife deep into his weathered heart.


    Shivering with fury, he stared out into the crowd, wanting¡ªbegging¡ªfor someone to challenge him. Pleading for some semblance of a fight. Praying for blood.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    A strange sensation pulsed where the blade had struck. An old sensation, almost forgotten.


    Pain.


    He raised his arm and winced, feeling the flesh tear around his wound. Blood like rivulets formed a carmine trail down his knuckles and dripped from his fingers.


    His own.


    "Aye, that''s not supposed to happen," he muttered, feeling the battle-joy suddenly leave him. His legs felt suddenly weak and he stumbled backwards into the table, knocking over his goblet, feeling the strength of his fury extinguished like the hushed wick of a candle.


    "Well, shit."


    His hand, slick with fresh blood, slipped off the smooth wood and he crashed into the floor. The goblet he''d knocked over had leaked its warm contents and the King now lay in a puddle formed of ale and ichor. The crowd beyond him continued to thrash about¡ªrushing towards any available exit, trampling each other to escape¡ªthough some paused long enough to watch the strange sight of their immortal King bleeding out.


    "It''s your own damned fault, you know."


    Dizzily, as if drunk, the King turned his head. Black spots clouded his vision for a moment. When they cleared he was able to discern a painted figure kneeled beside him, fool''s hat flopping atop his head. "Wadhju do?" His tongue was dry and clumsy inside his mouth.


    "What did I do?" asked the Jester. "What did you do? You know I may be a few stars short of a sunrise, but even I don''t go sticking pointy weapons inside my body." He giggled then, and stole a quick glance at the murder weapon jutting out of the King''s chest.


    The King''s vision blurred once again from the bloodloss, and then, strangely, it blurred as he tried to look upon the knife''s hilt. Then the blur faded. "This blade...this is...our blade. Margery and I...we made¡ª"


    "Shhh, shhh. Don''t speak, my lord. You''ll just hurry this whole thing and I''d prefer it if you took this slow. No sense in hearing all the gritty details, anyhow.  You''ll be dead quite soon and at your own doing, mind you."


    The world went dark suddenly, but the King fought against it with everything he had left, which was not much. When his eyes opened again the fool had seated himself in front of him just inches from his face.


    "Okay fine," the Jester said. "Since you''re being so stubborn about this, I''ll tell you this: stealing magic through murder is a vile act of inconsiderable treachery. The fact that you did it to the woman you loved just makes it all the more wretched. You locked your very soul inside this blade when you stole hers away from her. But now you have it back." The fool smiled then, and winked. "''No man alive with sword or knife can fell the King Immortal.''"


    Then, the painted man wrenched the dagger from the King''s chest and leaned in close to his ear. "But you''ve been dead for centuries, you rancid piece of snail shit."


    The King did not know when the Jester had left him, only that he were gone. As he stared at the lifeblood that continued to flow from his body he found that in the end he did not care about what had happened or who had done it. He did not think about what would happen to his Kingdom once he was gone. He could not even bring himself to mourn his own death. His only worry¡ªhis only fear¡ªwas that of Margery, and what the bitch would do to him once she had discovered him in hell.


    He soon found out.