Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

King Pallan, hand to his brow, peering hard, remarked with mounting anticipation, “That’s a long shot, one I’m eager to take.”

  Barrow responded, “We are with you, king. Let the game commence …”

  King Pallan smiled, mischievously. “The game has begun.” Taking one last look at the gophers’ hole, he swung hard, perhaps a little too hard, at the wound-string ball; a chunk of dirt and vivid grass exploded from the ground.

  The ball shot like a rocket—way off course.

  Barrow, straining to see where it landed, said encouragingly, “A little more pull on the upswing will help to arc it more, but not bad for a first shot, sire.”

  King Pallan winced as the ball ricocheted off a tree, flew across a small dip in the grass, and rolled harmlessly into a pond. “Ugh … bloody awful.”

  Jaid snickered to himself.

  King Pallan said, “I do believe it is your shot, Barrow.”

  “Ah, right, sir.” Barrow took out an iron, with pipe in mouth; he simulated hitting the ball a few times before unleashing a powerful swing, which sent the ball flying in a perfect arc, directly toward the gophers’ hole. The ball plopped to the ground. Due to the short grass near the hole the ball rolled close by to it. An impressive drive by anyone’s standard, to be sure.

  King Pallan exclaimed, “What a shot!”

  Jaid agreed.

  Barrow, seemingly unfazed by their congratulations, continued to smoke his pipe as he viewed the first hole in the course, with evident satisfaction. “Thank ye—but quite unnecessary.”

  King Pallan looked at Jaid. “It’s your shot.”

  Jaid answered softly, “Right, sire. Here goes …” The dwarfed court jester wiggled his rump, looking at the gophers’ hole, then at the ball, and back, until, without warning, he swung hard and smashed the ball with an effect nearly equal to Barrow’s shot. The makeshift gavan ball sailed through the air and landed near Barrow’s ball, but not quite as close to the hole as the stoic elder’s.

  “Brilliant, Jaid. Almost as close as mine …”

  Jaid clapped his hands once. “Ha!”

  King Pallan lowered his gaze and sighed.

  “Your turn, sire, though I’m not sure how you will—”

  King Pallan interrupted, with a semi-stern look, “Thank you, Barrow, for reminding me of the difficulty of the shot.”

  The trio walked over to the pond. Coming to its edge, they could just make out the small, white ball under the brackish water. Garash stood off at some distance, his left leg impatiently shaking.

  King Pallan briefly looked over at Jaid and Barrow, and then entered the pond gingerly. Plunging at the ball with his hand, he tossed it out unceremoniously onto the grass and made his way out of the stilled pool. The ball rolled to a stop some thirty feet from the pond. “A fair lead, eh, Barrow?”

  Barrow cleared his throat. “Quite so, I should think.” He turned to Jaid and asked, “What do you think, Jaid? A fair lead?”

  Jaid answered straightaway, “A fair lead, indeed. Right, sire?”

  King Pallan strode past them, mumbling to himself.

  Barrow gestured with his head for Jaid to go with him over to the king, who was setting up for his next shot. Before they could reach him, King Pallan swung at his ball.

  Barrow cupped his right hand over his eye as he watched the ball fly—rather erratically—through the air, landing nowhere in the vicinity of the first hole. However, it did miss the pond and a patch of briars.

  King Pallan walked toward his ball. “Closer this time, eh, Barrow?”

  Barrow cleared his throat, nervously. “Oh right, indeed—closer this time.”

  The three of them approached the pond-stained ball. Garash walked in circles nearby, humming to himself as he picked apart bulbs, which looked somewhat like dandelions, only larger and more vivid.

  King Pallan snarled at his aloof caddy. And with a gruff complaint, he announced loudly, “Fore!” He swung angrily at the gavan ball, at first missing it completely. With an abrupt backswing, he swung again, this time hitting the ball squarely, which sent it ascending violently into the sky.

  Barrow and Jaid silently observed the ball’s crash in a collection of ferns, only so indirectly closer to the first hole than before.

  Barrow shook his head gently as he rolled his eyes.

  King Pallan vented—“Blast!”—and sent his club cartwheeling across the grass, making a tuning-fork sound.

  Garash looked up, alarmed.

  Jaid held his hand to his mouth, chuckling as Barrow continued to shake his head gently, his lips tightening a little around his pipe.

  “Idiotic game! How can it be so hard—it is so simple. I mean, all one does, is take this rod, here—there—and hit this little white ball, that isn’t really, that’s supposed to fly into or near some gopher hole, and doesn’t, and you’re the talk of society! Pfft. Am I right, Barrow?! I hate this stupid game.”

  Barrow, glancing at Jaid, who was chuckling almost to the point of laughter, replied, “Ah, quite right, sir; a game for fools. For dandies …”

  “Dandies, bloody idiots, I tell you. All of them. I’m surrounded by idiots.”

  Barrow responded composedly, “Quite the state of things, sire. Surrounded by idiots.”

  Jaid’s chuckling intensified.

  King Pallan barked, “Boy—bring me my clubs.”

  Garash flicked his dandelion-like plant to the ground and ran over to King Pallan, who was impatiently beckoning him with his hand.

  “Here you are, sire.” Garash abruptly stopped; the gavan bag swung around his body, disturbing the clubs inside, most nosily.

  King Pallan, inspecting the clubs through squinted eyes, soon pulled out a B iron. Looking it over for a few seconds, he commented to Jaid and Barrow, “This will bring me the luck I need. I can tell.”

  Barrow nodded, feigning an expression of approval and gravity.

  Jaid trembled as he struggled to mute his laughter.

  King Pallan made his way over to the ferns. Searching them for a couple of minutes, he eventually found his ball. He emerged with a slight grin. “Shall we get on with the game?”

  Barrow nodded. “Oh, by all means.”

  King Pallan glanced at him from the corner of his eye, with slight annoyance. Before he placed—rather generously—the ball closer to the first hole, he asked Barrow, “Five to one that I make this shot?”

  Barrow put his head down for a moment, smoking away. “Fifty to one.”

  King Pallan frowned. “Fifty to one?”

  Barrow dipped his head to him. “Aye—against.”

  King Pallan muttered, “Bloody man! Against?”

  Barrow added, “And I’m being generous.”

  King Pallan, evidently exasperated, said with audible despair, “Generous? Couldn’t it be—”

  Just then, a man appeared at the top of the rise behind them and called to Barrow.

  Barrow turned. “Aye? Who is it?”

  The man, with both hands to his mouth, shouted, “It is Barrani; you are wanted at the council. A small matter needs attention.”

  Barrow lowered his head a degree; he appeared somewhat disappointed. “Right. Duty calls, as it were. Duty calls.”

  King Pallan responded, “Sorry to see you go. I understand. We will carry on without you.”

  Barrow gave a quick half bow to him. “Right, sire. I shall see you on the morrow.”

  King Pallan nodded. “On the morrow.”

  The elder left them and disappeared with Barrani over the hills. The king and his comrade Jaid continued their game of gavan. On the fifth hole, Garash announced that he must part from them.

  “Sire, I must be leaving; my tutor will soon be awaiting me at my home.”

  King Pallan turned from his conversation with Jaid. “Yes, of course. It is nearly midday. I understand. You may return to your home and tutor.”

  Garash dropped the gavan bag he had been carrying as if it were some unwanted load, gave a hasty bow, and ran like a m
adman across the pasture toward the adjacent road.

  King Pallan said under his breath, but seemingly addressing Jaid, “Bloody idiot. I am telling you he is a dunce.”

  Jaid giggled but said nothing.

  King Pallan urged, “Come, let us continue our game. We don’t need them anyway.”

  Jaid laughed. “Don’t need them anyway. Just the two of us!”

  King Pallan smiled. “Just the two of us, as of old.”

  “As of old!”

  Toward the seventh hole, the tops of the trees began to rustle as if disturbed by wind, yet on the ground, all was still.

  Noticing this, Jaid pointed to a large oak. “Sire, look!”

  King Pallan focused on the tree. “What, my little friend? What’s the matter?”

  “The branches are swaying—as though wind is disturbing them. But—”

  “Yet we feel no wind here … interesting.”

  They stopped and watched the trees all around them; all were shaking. Birds of every kind began fleeing the trees erratically.

  Eyes narrowing in wonder and alarm, King Pallan whispered, “Strange … I see the trees moving yet feel no wind. And the birds … they appear frightened by something.”

  Jaid came closer to him. “Sire, the birds, they are all flying away.”

  King Pallan anxiously surveyed the countryside. “I see …”

  “What could it be?”

  King Pallan did not answer him for several moments. “I am unsure, Jaid; I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The trees suddenly grew very still.

  King Pallan scrutinized the land suspiciously. “All right … let us continue our game.”

  Jaid, nearly hugging him, quietly agreed.

  On the last hole, as Jaid was about to take his shot, King Pallan being sorely beaten (as usual), a gust arose. The two looked up at the sky.

  Jaid exclaimed, “Sire, look! The sky—it’s threatening.”

  Scanning here and there, King Pallan answered, “A squall has broken out.”

  “Look at the clouds!”

  A large mass of dark, low-lying clouds was rapidly drifting their way. The air rapidly cooled. The treetops started to sway. Not a bird was in sight. Within moments, thunder could be heard; the air began swirling around them.

  “Let us seek shelter, sire!”

  Glancing at the clouds and trees a few more times, King Pallan responded, nearly roaring, “Let’s get out of here.”

  The king and his jester bolted for a thicket. As they ran, hail fell from the sky with such ferocity that it beat dents into the ground. The men took shelter under the trees and bushes just in time to avoid the deadly ice balls, when a whirlwind, like funnel of black smoke, touched down and started vacuuming up everything in its path.

  The strange storm raged for nearly half an hour. When it ceased, the sky swiftly cleared, and the sun regained its yellow-white brilliance, hotter and more intense than before.

  “I think it is clear, sire.”

  King Pallan peered up at the rainwater dripping from the lush ferns around them. “Yes, it appears so. Let us get out of this thicket.”

  “Aye!”

  Returning to the field, they found most of their gavan clubs scattered across the grass, their gavan balls nowhere to be found.

  King Pallan sighed. “No more balls. I think we are finished.”

  “Yes, sire. But it was the last hole …”

  King Pallan made a slow smile. “The last hole … on this course. Come, let us return home.”

  “Aye! Let us return home—I’m famished!”

  King Pallan beamed at his friend. “And I as well!”

  With the tattered gavan bag around his shoulder, King Pallan walked alongside Jaid, who played his flute, the two of them laughing as they went.

  II

  “My Lord; pardon my intrusion, sire.”

  King Pallan stirred in his chair. He was sitting in a small den at the end of a hallway that led from the royal governing room, where the throne was. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he asked, “What is it, Barrius?”

  The official, dressed quite neatly in a long, off-white robe, with an insignia of Paladia on its left breast and a stole of bright-red fabric with embossed, exotic-looking golden symbols, stepped forward a little and said apologetically, “Forgive me my intrusion, sire—”

  Sighing loudly, King Pallan interposed, “Get on with it. What is it?”

  Barrius anxiously fumbled with the scroll he held. “Yes, right. Quite. Sorry, My Lord. The matter of the well to be dug by the school. Have you considered it, My Lord?”

  King Pallan smirked as his head tilted to the side. “Pfft. The well. Bloody what does it mean? No, I have not considered it.”

  Barrius was, for a few seconds, evidently at a loss for words; he mouthed a response, but his larynx remained as silent as a corpse’s. Recomposing himself, he said, “Ah, right, sire. Of course.” He made a motion to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Barrius looked at him pleadingly. “Yes?”

  King Pallan compressed his lips as he shot looks around. “Look, I did not mean to be rude. I will consider the proposal. A bloody well …” He then gestured for him to leave with a flick of the wrist.

  Barrius’s countenance lit up. “Thank you, sire. We will await your decision on the matter.” Giving a slow bow, he left.

  “Pfft. Another interruption. What’s next—an elf waking me from my sleep? Be done!”

  The king, seated in a high-backed, dark mahogany chair, in the fashion of a throne, which was placed against the wall facing the door-less chamber, soon nodded off to the ticking of the grandfather clock to his right. Before long, he was fast asleep, his feet crossed on a small foot stool, his hands folded.

  A maid entered the den swiftly and smoothly, carrying a silver tray with sandwiches, fruit, pickles, and a tall glass of milk. “Sire,” she whispered.

  King Pallan groaned and turned away.

  The maid grinned. She said more loudly, “Sire, I’ve brought the midday meal.”

  King Pallan mumbled, “Go away. ’Tis not morning yet; and I’m tired of all.” His voice fell to nothing.

  The maid smiled widely and laughed. “Sire, sire; time to eat.”

  King Pallan opened his eyes and turned his head. “Midday meal, you say? Already?”

  “Yes, yes, indeed, sire.” The maid placed the tray on a table next him. “Eat.”

  Sitting up, he inspected the tray. “Ah, my favourite.” He took a sandwich and slowly began eating it.

  “Yes, the afternoon cook made your favourite—wild pheasant with cheese, and lettuce.” She handed him the tall, frosty glass of milk.

  He paused to swallow. “Thank you, mum; Catherine.”

  The old woman offered a motherly smile.

  He took a sip. “Quite good …” He returned to his sandwich.

  Cocking her head, the old woman entreated the king gently. “Barrius tells me you are going to decide about the well for the school—the schoolchildren would be so happy to have more water! The schoolmaster tells me—”

  King Pallan’s expression turned sullen. He rested his chin on his hand, the other holding his sandwich up. “Not you too, mum.”

  Catherine pleaded, “Oh, the children would be so happy if you commanded that well to be dug, and the schoolmaster and parents so very obliged—”

  King Pallan grumbled, “Oh, what’s a well to me?”

  Catherine smiled the more eagerly at him.

  “Fine. It is done. Tell Barrius that I order it and that I am sorry for my grumpiness toward him.”

  “Ha! Bless your heart, sire!” She kissed him on the cheek. “I shall tell him straightaway!” She pivoted and, in a flash, left the tiny chamber, her dress brushing against a hutch on the way out.

  King Pallan finished his sandwich gloomily. Taking a gulp of milk, he gradually returned the glass to the platter, surveying his modest sanctuary with equal parts suspicion and brooding. Lying on the floor
beside his chair was a tiny, toy-like bow. Fetching it and an equally slight arrow, he took aim at the far wall and released the bow. The toy arrow zipped across the room and struck another arrow stuck in a round target on the wall, a dartboard of sorts, with such precision that it split the other arrow in half, nearly all the way down its shaft.

  Grumbling to himself and eating part of a pickle, he shortly fell asleep in his chair, his left cheek resting against his fist.

  Sometime afterward, he was awakened by the curtain in the barred window above, lapping the back of his head.

  “Ugh …” King Pallan, with half-slit eyes, looked back at the window.

  The curtain was waving mysteriously.

  “Odd. Almost sounds as if there’s a deep, howling wind, yet the curtain is barely moving.” Getting up slowly, he stared at the curtain with an expression filled with perplexity. With tremulous hand, he took hold of the curtain and gently pulled it to the side. As he gazed at the sky through the barred window, all appeared clear; not a cloud was to be seen. “The sky is clear, yet I hear a low, howling noise …”

  A voice behind him announced suddenly, “My Lord, Reevin has startling news.”

  King Pallan scanned the sky for a few more seconds and slowly closed the curtain. With a wince, he faced the herald. “What news does he bring, Jan?”

  The royal messenger gave a hasty bow. “Perhaps you should speak with him, My Lord, yourself …”

  King Pallan, hunched over, eyes to the ground and fist gently to his mouth, answered softly after several moments, “I will meet him, Jan. Thank you for the news.”

  Jan bowed quickly—“My Lord”—and gestured for the king to follow him.

  The royal messenger led him to a large dining room, decorated with various oil paintings, ferns, and tapestries depicting idyllic countrysides and fierce battles. A fireplace burned at one end. At the centre of the room was a long table made from dark-stained hardwood that had a set of candles at either end and was ringed with elegant, high-backed, wooden chairs. The room had an air of both exquisiteness and bareness, for it was used only on occasion, to entertain certain guests, and was largely for show.

  “My Lord”—Jan indicated to King Pallan where Reevin was standing—“Reevin.”