“The Vyrax
have infiltrated four outposts at our southern border, my King.”
The only
sound in the room was the king’s heavy breathing and the sound of rattling
swords here and there and the odd spell getting shot off in the wizard’s tower
on the far side of the castle. The messenger stood for a moment before the mad
king, waiting for his response. The throne room stood deathly silent, like a
crypt or a church or a brothel on a Sunday.
“How many
knights remain in my employ?” The king rasped.
“Only three,
your highness,” the master at arms said. “Silver, Rhesus, and Mander.”
“The rest?”
The
master-at-arms was quiet. “You had them executed for treason.”
“I did no such thing!” The king leaped to
his feet, face purple.
“You said
they were conspiring with the wizards to tame dragons and lay waste to your
kingdom.”
“That’s an
absurd impossibility.” The king sat back down.
“That’s
what Vargas said when you had him executed.” The master-at-arms felt a little
peevish. This was the third time someone—
Without
warning, there was a flash of light and the king’s head detonated, splattering
gore across the throne room. The haggard courtiers, who had seen some pretty
terrible things recently, reacted with amusement and boredom.
“Well, this
doesn’t solve our endemic problems,” the messenger said hesitantly.
“Shut up,
this isn’t all bad.” The Vizier was cleaning his nails, which were long and
yellow and probably couldn’t be cleaned.
“You shut
up, you’re probably behind his assassination.”
“I can’t do
magic, you git.” The Vizier stood in a grand flourish of dark robes.
“As if,”
the master-at-arms scoffed, then suddenly looked terrified.
“Well, we
have only one choice for king.”
“The chosen
one!” The messenger looked proud.
“Of course,
the chosen one.” The master-at-arms was carefully trying to camouflage himself
against a giant brocade tapestry with a female courtier’s wimple.
“But there
is a major problem,” the Vizier sneered. He really didn’t need to sneer, he
thought. There’s really no major point in the character development to be
sneering all the time. Perhaps he could smile next time? Wait, teeth. Sharp,
rotten teeth are such a hassle to maintain. He satisfied himself by winking,
which still felt predatory. “There are two possible chosen ones.”
“Chosen
two.”
They all
looked at who spoke. The Grand Wizard was mostly senile. He was thirty-two and
had set off too many spells next to his head. Something about the thaumatic
energy had melted something important in there. They didn’t know what, don’t
ask. They aren’t brain surgeons; bones of Christ you’re inquisitive. Read the
book. He spent most of his time rolling his wheelchair down spiral staircases
on accident and telling people his name was Toe, so that’s what they called
him.
“Chosen
two?”
“We must
send them on a quest. Possibly together.”
The Vizier,
master-at-arms, and messenger glanced at each other, questioning his sudden
lucidity.
“A quest?”
“If they
can stop the Vyrax threat, then we will have a real winner.”
“Wait, won’t
we have to have two kings if they stop it together?” The master-at-arms was
having trouble processing all this. He glanced at the steaming stump of the
king’s neck.
“We could
vote…” the messenger suggested.
“Democracy.”
The Vizier shuddered.
“But then
we wouldn’t have the benefit of a fantasy buddy-comedy,” Toe said.
“Who are
the chosen two?” the messenger asked.
“The first
is Mander, the knight.” The throne room visibly relaxed. Mander was sexy,
strong, capable, well-rounded.
“The
second?” The Vizier was leaning forward.
“His name
is Jack the Petard.”
“Jack the
Retard?”
“The
Petard,” Toe said forcefully.
“He blows
stuff up,” the master-at-arms said, checking the king’s wrist for a pulse.
“Well, why
bother with the quest then?” the messenger asked. “Mander is our man.”
“Rules are
rules,” Toe said, before emitting a streamer of drool and lapsing back into
silence.
“Well,”
sighed the Vizier. “Those Vyrax aren’t going to vanquish themselves.”
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