Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

  King Pallan stopped at the last man. His progress down the line was quite hurried, which presented a challenge to Jerreth, for whom just getting into his poorly fitting metal suit was trouble enough. “Jerreth—all is in order.”

  “Yes, quite so, thank you, sire, my good lord.”

  King Pallan rolled his lower lip while bobbling his head. “Good.” He then slapped his captain of the guard in the chest with his leather glove; the thin metal of the man’s suit nearly dented as it rung out with a ting. A small cloud of dust arose from where the glove had struck the suit. “Good; all is in order, my good man. And now I must—”

  “If you’ll permit me, sire—may Sir Clyde accompany us on the morning reconnoitre of the lands?”

  King Pallan smirked as he shook his head. Sighing, he said, “Yes, Sir Clyde may accompany the men on the reconnoitre of the park.”

  “Thank you, kind sir, thank you. You know he has a way of finding things, leading us on many adventures.”

  “Pfft! That cat has a way of getting into screwball tomfoolery, more like. It’d be better for you and them that you shan’t rely upon his sense, sense of direction, or you could end up in the Bayle Wastes …”

  “Oh, right, quite so, my good sire. But he has the most singular way of leading us to intruders.”

  “To trouble, more like.” King Pallan eyed his lead knight with light scorn. He relented. “Oh, take the bloody cat with you. I’m sure he’ll lead you and the men on many ‘adventures’.”

  “Thank you, sire! Thank you!”

  King Pallan forced a smile. “My pleasure, Jerreth. Now, if you will excuse me, I have my errands to run.” Under his breath, he remarked dryly, “Gavan and arrows to attend to.”

  About to turn and order the men to depart, Jerreth stopped short and prompted King Pallan, “The order; sire?”

  King Pallan made a flippant gesture. “Disperse.”

  Jerreth turned and ordered the men to disperse in single file, to commence their routine morning patrol of the tract of land surrounding the castle, called the Royal Park.

  King Pallan stormed off, as if the entire affair had taken quite too much of his time and energy, and the sun was minutes from setting, when, in actuality, it had shortly before arisen. As he passed the royal stables, the stableman waved and greeted the king heartily.

  “Hello there, sire! Good to see you so early in the morning! What a fine spring day we have upon us.”

  King Pallan grumbled to himself and made a half-hearted attempt to respond to the old stableman, who had overseen the royal stables for nearly sixty years. “Yes, indeed, Gael, a fine spring day.” He continued walking at a fast pace.

  “Have you seen the foal? A real beauty she is …”

  King Pallan did not acknowledge him but persisted in leaving the area as fast as his legs, under the pretence of a fast walk, could carry him. The old stableman continued to talk, to the point of nearly shouting, as King Pallan rounded a corner of the servants’ house, slipping from sight.

  King Pallan vented to himself, “Bloody fools. Such a waste of time—the whole thing is. I wish they would leave me alone.”

  “Sire!” A man eagerly approached the swiftly moving king. He had a quiver of arrows around his shoulder.

  “Barrow, you have my arrows. Good man.”

  “Yes, sire. We have been waiting for you since early—”

  “I have been detained—as usual—with trivialities. The formalities of fools!”

  Barrow laughed quietly. Taking the quiver from his shoulder, he gave it to King Pallan. “Fine morning to shoot some arrows.”

  “Indeed.” King Pallan placed the quiver around his shoulder and seemed to adjust it meticulously.

  The two men walked toward a low wooden fence, overlooking a small meadow.

  “Fired off a few shots already.”

  King Pallan turned to Barrow. “I’m envious; good on you. Where’s Jaid?”

  Barrow used the pipe he was smoking to point at a grass berm behind them. “I think he’s coming right now.”

  King Pallan squinted. “Good.”

  A man, dwarf-sized, ran after them, slowing only when he was right on their heels. Catching his breath, he said, “Sire. Barrow and I have already started. There’s quite a bit of good shootin’ t’day.”

  King Pallan smiled as he glanced down at the winded man. “Very good, Jaid. Very good. Have the targets been set up?”

  Jaid eagerly shook his head as he chuckled. “All set up, sire. We await your command …”

  King Pallan stopped and turned to Barrow, who was puffing his pipe, the bluish-grey smoke wafting by the king. “Barrow, my good man, this is the sport of kings.”

  Barrow cracked a smile as he paused his puffing. “The sport of kings? I should think riding a horse or political intrigue; seeking fair ladies—sitting on a throne—would be the sport of kings. But shooting arrows?”

  King Pallan laughed. “The sport of kings! Nay—the sport of kings is marksmanship, gavan, and avoiding work! That is the sport of kings.”

  Jaid and Barrow chuckled. Barrow commented, as if introspectively, between puffs from his pipe, “Indeed.”

  “Where is Garash?”

  “He should be joining us shortly, sire.” Barrow nodded toward the fence, which was lined with cans, apples, pears, and other small items, apparently serving as targets.

  King Pallan nodded. “Hmm … very good then. And now, my good gentlemen, let the glory of this day unfold.”

  Jaid and Barrow answered decisively, “Let it be so.”

  King Pallan took an arrow from his quiver while Jaid handed him a bow. About to place the arrow to the bow, he stopped and looked over at them. “Forgive me.” Smiling coyly, he asked, “May I have the honour of shooting first?”

  They both answered, “Oh by all means, sire, by all means.”

  King Pallan scanned the line of targets with his keen, light-brown eyes, and with a slight roll of his head and a subtle tensing of the muscles around his mouth, commented softly, “That one.” The target was an apple some thirty yards distant. Securing the arrow to the bow, with machine precision and effortless grace, and seemingly in a single motion, he released the bow with a light exhalation. The arrow cleaved the air with a ripping, siren sound, and within a second, traversed the distance to the target—a bright-red apple. The arrow struck the apple with such precision—and speed—that it went completely through it, leaving behind only a narrow hole and a slight wobble. King Pallan reset his stance.

  Shaking his head slightly, and with his hand to his pipe, Barrow commented, with admiration and muted jealousy, “Impressive. If there were any doubt you are the marksman of the kingdom …”

  Jaid said in excitement, “Shoot another, sire!”

  King Pallan smiled gently and drew another arrow. Securing the arrow in his half-lowered bow, at a dipping angle to the ground, he surveyed the targets. After several moments, he raised his bow and shot an arrow at a can at least a hundred feet away—an even smaller target than the apple. The arrow zinged toward its target like a rifle shot. In the blink of an eye, the arrow pierced the can, striking it dead centre even though the shooter stood at an oblique angle to it. The can gyrated and fell onto the grass.

  Jaid clapped his hands with joy. “Ha! Finest shot there is!”

  Barrow, puffing away, with subtle deftness, remarked out of the side of his mouth, “Remarkable … the greatest shot in all of Paladia.”

  Jaid echoed his sentiment. “Indeed—in all of Paladia!”

  King Pallan lowered his bow as he smiled deviously. “Just a thing I do, really.”

  Barrow scoffed, “Really. Not even a geven could shoot with such accuracy.”

  King Pallan, pausing, seemed to dispute his sentiment with a faint expression of protest. He shortly remarked, “When I was a little boy, my father brought me with him when he went shooting.” Lowering his head for an instant and raising it quickly, he resumed. “Taught me everything I know. Was a fair man,
very good to me.”

  Barrow nodded several times, his pipe releasing a plume of bluish smoke. “Indeed, a very fine man. A prince of a man was he, King Pallan II.” And in a lower, gravelly voice, he added, “Missed by many … by all.”

  Barrow went on smoking.

  King Pallan seemed slightly irritated at his commentary, in particular his last words. The brief suspension of banter between them was lifted when Jaid took up his bow to engage some targets.

  “Sire—the field is ready. A target presents itself!” Taking aim at a distant apple, quite unsteadily, Jaid released the bow and shot the arrow. It sailed harmlessly over the apple.

  Barrow said reassuringly, “Not too bad, Jaid. It was closer this time round.”

  King Pallan chimed in. “Not bad, little fellow. That was close.” He came over to Jaid and then demonstrated how to properly hold, aim, and release the bow. Nodding to Jaid, he stressed gently, “Like that.”

  Jaid smiled widely at his king. Clapping his hands together hard once and jumping in place a few times, he settled into a serious pose, aiming at a can. In seconds, he shot another arrow, which this time hit its intended target with fair accuracy. Although the arrow’s speed was insufficient to penetrate or pierce the side of the can, it did strike with ample energy to pop the can off the fence and send it end over end to the ground with a hollow toll. “Ha—I hit it!”

  Barrow calmly acknowledged, “Good, Jaid. You’re becoming quite the mark.”

  King Pallan’s eyes had lit up; he began to smile. “Very good, Jaid. Within several months, you will be able to join the Royal Bowmen Corps, I should think.”

  Barrow agreed, “No doubt.”

  Jaid pleaded with unconstrained excitement, “Sire, shoot another! Shoot another arrow!”

  Barrow’s narrow mouth slit, accustomed to clamping down on the end of a pipe and sealing his lungs from everything precious save tobacco smoke imbued with hickory, by subtle degrees widened into an unapologetic grin. “By all means, sire, by all means. We enjoy watching you decimate—”

  King Pallan had already taken aim and fired another arrow, with such ferocity and speed that the expertly crafted shaft of wood, tipped with steel, blew an apple in half, its pieces flying radially in all directions.

  “Ha! And another, sire,” Jaid exclaimed.

  Barrow completed his thought. “Apples.”

  King Pallan shot another arrow.

  Jaid chanted more wildly, “And another!”

  The arrow severed a piece of rope suspended vertically by two braces, the rope’s bottom end being securely attached to the top of the fence.

  Barrow noted dryly, “And ropes.” But he couldn’t help saying, mutedly, “Remarkable …”

  Jaid jumped up and down, clapping his hands frantically. “Oh! Quite the shot, sire. You completely severed the rope!”

  King Pallan turned to Jaid and smiled deviously. Facing forward again, he said quietly, “Watch this …”

  Jaid focused with great attention. Barrow nonchalantly puffed away at his pipe, occasionally bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  King Pallan dispatched several targets with astounding swiftness and accuracy. Apples, oranges, thin pieces of wood, ropes, cans, and other items were split in half, punctured, or blown apart.

  Barrow declared, “Simply astounding. You are the pride of the kingdom for marksmanship, sire. The pride of the kingdom …”

  Jaid echoed, “The pride of the kingdom!”

  King Pallan had exhausted his supply of arrows. Removing the quiver from his shoulder, he said, “I’m out.”

  Barrow confirmed, “Exhausted your supply, eh?”

  King Pallan gently nodded to him. “Indeed.” Placing the quiver on the ground, he asked, “Where is Garash? I desire to gavan …”

  Barrow immediately covered for the tardy caddie. “Oh, he’s bound to show up any time now. Just you wait, sire. He’ll be here.”

  King Pallan smirked at Barrow and walked by him. Approaching Jaid, he began to show the court jester and lifelong friend of the king some of the mechanics of holding and aiming a bow.

  Barrow announced all at once, “Here he is … our good man, Garash.”

  King Pallan looked up and over to the left, where the caddie was skipping and at times stumbling down the lane, humming.

  “Ah, good, Barrow, our man is here, indeed.” Stooping, he finished his demonstration. “And that is the proper technique for pinching the arrow. At least as my father taught me.” He smiled at Jaid and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Rising, he asked the bumbling Garash, “Have you got my clubs for the day, lad?”

  Garash, silent for a few moments, answered when he came within a few yards of them. “Yes, sir. I got the clubs. You can bet they’ll work—all polished and the like.” He went right back to humming a tune.

  King Pallan rolled his eyes and muttered to himself, “If he weren’t my cousin’s only son. Bumbling fool, a first-class dolt, is he.” More loudly, he said, “Very good, Garash. Now give ’em here.”

  Garash, in his late teens, freckled, with reddish-brown hair, handed the heavy gavan bag to him, its contents rattling.

  King Pallan looked quickly into the leather bag and quipped, “All is in order.” He returned the bag to the teen, who shouldered it straightaway as he looked all around, as if his attention was completely elsewhere. “Come, let us go; gavan awaits us, my good Barrow and Jaid.”

  Barrow picked up King Pallan’s empty quiver and placed it over his shoulder.

  Jaid took out a pouch containing rounds of tightly wound yarn, dried wax, and gum (makeshift gavan balls). “Aye, king! Let us play us some gavan!”

  King Pallan grinned back at him and nodded emphatically. “Aye, my little friend.”

  Garash followed them, his head swivelling in every direction as he marvelled at the beautiful countryside, the smallest detail capturing his ever-wondering attention. He soon fell behind.

  Barrow, temporarily stopping and turning around, barked from the side of his mouth as he deftly puffed his pipe, “Come along, come along, son. Let us not hold up the king, Garash.”

  Garash, swinging forward—he had been watching a bunch of insects hover in a wobbling mass above a lily—gritted his teeth and plunged ahead, soon outpacing King Pallan, Jaid, and Barrow.

  King Pallan watched as his young caddy shot by. “And there go our gavan clubs …”

  Barrow gently shook his head.

  The lad crossed a narrow road, hopped a rickety fence, and then went off into a large field, skipping and humming as he went.

  The king and his comrades approached the road. A mule-drawn cart rattled by slowly. The cart’s driver announced, loudly, “Morning, sire. ’Tis a fine day! My wife and I bless you! Making your rounds of gavan, eh?”

  King Pallan waved once with a flick his of his wrist. “Ay, my good lady and man. Indeed, a fine day. The king has use of his fields.”

  The man answered, “Ay, indeed! Strange storm a brewin’ south way. Me and my wife not seen anything a’like it!”

  Barrow had a faint expression of puzzlement as he half-turned to Jaid, who appeared unmoved by the man’s revelation.

  King Pallan smirked at the simple farmer and pivoted his head south, squinting. The sky was a clear blue; not a cloud could be seen. He remarked under his breath, “I don’t see anything. No idea what he is talking about.” Looking back at the passing couple in their cart, he said, “We’ll be careful!”

  The man shot back, “Ay, my good king. Very careful. Watch the sky …”

  The cart rolled off.

  King Pallan stopped at the edge of the lane. He appeared confused. Placing a hand on his hip, looking over at Barrow, he said with a tinge of annoyance and surprise, “I wonder what he meant by that, Barrow?”

  Barrow, puffing away, eventually answered, “Not a clue, sire. Jaid and I here see no such weather. Do you?”

  King Pallan looked ahead again. “No, I don’t; I don’t see such a thing. Old fool …�
� He pivoted his head quickly back at Barrow. “I wonder what he meant, specifically, by ‘Watch the sky …’”

  Barrow closed his right eye while relighting his pipe. Blowing out a small cloud of smoke, he replied, “No idea. Mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing, Barrow. Come along. We have need to catch our caddy, I’m afraid.” Garash was wandering aimlessly in the pasture.

  Jaid held back a laugh.

  In a minute or so, the king and his company neared the distracted teen.

  “Where shall we start, sire? Near the red oak? The stream—over by the mulberry trees?”

  “Not sure, Jaid. What do you think, Barrow?”

  “Decision is all yours, sire; no particular preference.”

  King Pallan shook his head twice as he peered ahead. “Very well, then. We shall start by the mulberry trees …”

  Jaid snapped his fingers in rapid succession. “To the mulberry trees we shall go!”

  “The game has begun. Garash, give me my X iron.”

  Garash ceased his aimless pacing and took out a metal rod (somewhat crude in fashion) with a flat and angled head at one end; the rod was a deep rust colour and had thin, dark, leather-like straps, woven into a type of grip.

  King Pallan took the rod eagerly—“Ah, my X iron”—and continued walking to a cluster of trees at the other side of the field.

  Jaid and Barrow each took out their favourite club for a long-range shot.

  Setting up before the trees, King Pallan had the first shot; a remote gophers’ hole many yards away, marked with a reed topped by a little, bright-green flag.