Rather, it was because fear of death was extinguished in the process of making a Metinvurian spy, which was one of the reasons King Verwil rarely allowed more than one in the room at the same time. A spy who feared death or torture—even death or torture of loved ones—could be manipulated by the enemy and could not be trusted. Their fearlessness had to be without boundaries. Thus, King Verwil understood and respected that the doting, sycophantic nature would not be found in a Metinvurian spy, and in fact he would have killed any spy who exhibited such weakness. Calm, balanced respect was sufficient.
“Irkels, come forward.”
Irkels walked towards King Verwil. The bodyguards tensed considerably, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
Whereas the ambassador stood five feet from King Verwil, Irkels did not have to be told to stop at twenty. Unless directly ordered to do otherwise, one step closer would elicit a furious attack from the king’s guards. At this distance, two cobra statues stood facing Irkels. To pass these statues was to invite death.
Irkels bowed and then stood to full height.
“How can this be, Irkels? Has it not long been our nation’s goal to pacify, train, and utilize the majestic pholung to our ends?”
“Yes, Sire. As we speak, Your Highness’s spies” (Irkels knew better than to say “my spies,” which he would have said in any other context) “are scouring Sogolia, Sodorf, and Dachwald, searching first to verify or falsify the substance of this extraordinary claim. In no less than one year, we will have this claim proven true or false. If false, we will publicly flay all sources of this ill-conceived rumor. If true, in no less than one year from that day will Your Highness be presented in this very court with a majestic pholung tamed and ready to do your Highness’s bidding.”
A less-experienced man would have promised something such as “anytime now, Sire” or “it is only a matter of days, Your Highness,” to which he would have received a severe recrimination. King Verwil had little patience for generalities, especially when they appeared intended to deceive.
“That sounds moderately reasonable,” replied King Verwil. King Verwil practiced what he preached when it came to the folly of rushing into situations. King Verwil was a Metinvurian to the marrow of his soul, and doing a job right—neither rushing nor delaying—was the Metinvurian ethos.
“In no later than one year you will present me either with tamed pholungs or the flayed traitors who began this vile rumor.”
Irkels wasn’t surprised to have his timeline cut in half. It was for that reason he had requested double the time he felt necessary to complete the task.
Chapter 9
Chip was flying around with his fellow konulans, and they were having a grand old time. The konulans had been sent away on a vacation not long after one of Master’s horrible battles, the details of which they were painfully aware, having been present in the sky watching that poor mass of soldiers marching towards Master’s wooden lightning sticks (as the konulans called Tristan’s projectiles blanketed with naphtha and stuffed with pheorite).
After that battle, Master told them that due to their hard work they had earned a considerable rest and were to fly to the far northwestern boundary of Dachwald for a period of a year, after which they were to return for further instructions.
Tristan had felt that the konulans had served the last of their useful purposes the day Chip had brought news of the knighting of a Sodorfian commoner, and Tristan had virtually pleaded with Koksun—whom he had begun to hold in higher and higher esteem over the years, as Koksun’s ideas almost always proved fruitful, even if they presented obstacles at times—to allow him to finally kill off the konulans once and for all. Tristan had never trusted them. They had always been the most unruly, unpredictable, gossipy creatures imaginable, putting to shame even their human counterparts, whom he considered as a whole so filled with these vices that it was but on rare occasions that he had ever enjoyed interactions with them.
But Koksun’s Metinvurian nature had not been lost in the transformation to felis catus, and he foresaw some future use for them and asked Tristan, “In spite of your suspicions, have they ever dared betray you?”
Tristan never ceased to be fuddled when Koksun redacted seemingly complex issues to singular questions upon which the whole matter rested, as the answer to these questions often proved Koksun to be in the right. Tristan had almost retorted triumphantly that “Yes, yes they have betrayed me!” thinking of the konulans’ early days when they had been denied the privilege of speaking to anyone other than him and had disobeyed him most regularly, but before he opened himself up to another logical foil by making this asseveration he realized that this merely proved disobedience but not treachery. They had spoken to one another gleefully, something that the severest of punishments could not get them to refrain from, but they had never spoken to a human, never given away the location of his lair—in brief, never done anything contrary to his interests. Furthermore, once he had employed Koksun’s new guidelines of allowing them to speak with one another but no one else, they had obeyed admirably.
Thus it was with a long silence and furrowed brow that Tristan searched in vain for the answer to Koksun’s question that would prove Tristan to be in the right. But truth be told, as much as he esteemed logic and reason, he held his instincts on equal, perhaps higher footing, and his instincts told him that as sure as the sun rose and fell each day in the sky these konulans would betray him.
Tristan then riposted by telling Koksun that, while they had not betrayed him yet, that was merely because they had been too busy to do so. He had had them scouring Sodorf for years watching for the knighting of a Sodorfian commoner, and he had often allowed them to work in small teams, which allowed them to serve a useful purpose and still satisfy their insatiable desire for endless, vacuous chitchat. Without a new mission for them, Tristan feared their lack of purpose would render them more unruly and result in large reunions of these creatures, as a result of which so much hullabaloo would occur it would be hours, rather than days, before humans discovered this talking bird species, discovered everything they knew about Tristan, and employed them towards their own ends.
Tristan explained to Koksun that with these birds one could not wait for a single rebellion to then confirm their treacherous nature, as a single act of rebellion would be quite sufficient to bring an end to all he had worked so hard for over the past centuries.
This debate had continued between Tristan and Koksun almost endlessly, much like a debate might proceed between two impassioned scientists never able to convince the other of his superior theory.
Finally, after the Bloodbath of Platz, as the battle near Arbeitplatz had been named, Tristan had told Koksun: “I believe you have been right, as nearly always you are. The konulans have remained worthy allies. I believe they have served me admirably and deserve a respite. I have therefore ordered them to fly to the far northwest of Dachwald and to enjoy a year of much-deserved leisure before returning to resume their services.”
Koksun had nearly clawed his master out of indignation for such a ridiculous course of action, but with his double instinct as a Metinvurian spy and a feline, he knew decisively those rare occasions when Tristan did not wish to hear his counsel, and he knew that on those occasions it was best to remain as mute as a statue, which he had done.
What Koksun had observed at that moment was a man nearly unraveled from the threads of sanity that secure a man’s soul. His eyes were gleaming, he was nearly trembling with excitement, and he had promptly removed himself from Koksun’s presence to the other side of the bookshelf, which divided his abode in half.
Tristan, in fact, had done more than dispatch the konulans afar. He had committed the killing of Istus’s small family and set in motion the doom that otherwise likely would not have befallen him. Upon seeing the chatty creatures after the Bath at Platz (as it was referred to in shortened form), his instincts had told him that they would somehow sabotage his
seemingly inevitable march south to Sodorf and Dachwald’s long-awaited glory. But not wanting to rid himself of these creatures permanently—should he later have a change of heart, which the small thread of sanity left of his mind told him he probably would have—he decided it would be best to use a less-permanent measure.
After all, he figured, they could do no harm within Dachwald, which was solely his possession now. Should they seek to do mischief in Sodorf, it would be much later, and it would only be months before Sodorf was firmly in his grasp. Then, he could take the time needed to lower himself calmly from the clouds of ecstasy he was floating on down to the level valley of reason and make a calm, rational decision concerning the fate of the konulans, once he was the firmly established, yet invisible, dictator of both Sodorf and Dachwald lurking behind the façade of a representative government.
Chip knew not of these anxieties that plague men who see the world as their chessboard. All he knew was that, in spite of all the fun the konulans were having in this far-off place, there really couldn’t be too much harm in exploring on his own for a little while.
So, without taking leave of his pals, he began to fly south, surveying the beautiful mountains as he went. He didn’t get too close to their peaks, because he noticed that whenever he tried the cold bite those dreadful mounds produced sent a shiver through his thin feathery coat that inspired him to keep his distance.
Unlike many of the konulans, who either had a spouse or children to tend to, Chip was a single bird. Truth be told, he had been feeling somewhat resentful—in fact, immensely resentful—after Laura, the girl he had hoped to impress yesterday by performing an aerial maneuver where he dropped hundreds of feet while spinning around like one of those terrible storms they saw occasionally, had snubbed him.
She had smiled at him, but when Max brought her a worm the size of a small tree branch, she had put it into her mouth with avaricious delight, and together she and Max had brought it to the nest of Laura’s parents, who were tending to a rather ravenous brood. Laura’s parents had smiled approvingly at Max after Laura told them Max had found the worm. And when their ornery hatchlings were still munching away on the luscious worm flesh the next day, having saved the parents the dreary task of flying back and forth to their nest all day with worms the little devils would wolf down in one swallow, they had looked at Max with admiration.
Chip knew Laura was his no more, and he had decided that maybe he had had enough of them for a while. To Chip, it seemed it never ended. First, there would be a huge celebration because someone gave birth. Then, another celebration because someone got engaged. Then, another celebration because there was a pretty sunset. Chip was finding himself growing more and more dissatisfied with these reunions, and whereas other konulans struggled mightily over who would get to accompany whom on their long missions spying for Master, Chip always savored those solo flights where no one wanted to fly with him.
Chip knew why no one liked to fly with him. He was quick to give a “Shush!!” or even a nip with his beak whenever those flying with him opened their mouths. He knew how it had been in the Old Days before Master had grown soft. In the Old Days, talking was a capital offense, carried out by that wise, yet terrifying, creature the konulans simply referred to as Black Demon.
Chip knew Master’s intelligence far exceeded his own, and orders were orders, so he had kept his grumblings to a minimum even on the inside and had most certainly never voiced a complaint to the other konulans about it. But it had been almost too much to bear to watch them celebrating over the fact their persistent disobedience had earned them . . . not severe punishments, which they thoroughly deserved, but instead . . . a relaxation of the rules! If not for his undying respect for Master, he would have voiced the most vehement objections. He had disliked his fellows sufficiently before The Great Relaxation, as he called it, but had come to thoroughly loathe them after it.
He had been somewhat crushed the day he had humbly presented Master with the news of a man of common birth in Sodorf having been knighted, due to not having received some sort of praise from Master, but after careful thought it made him admire Master all the more. After all, what had he done but his duty?
The other konulans had congratulated him heartily, but he knew their true thoughts. They envied him and hated him for having been the one to discover, on a solo flight, what they most certainly would have missed even if it had happened right under their beaks, as they would have been engaged in the most trivial gossip.
They had been in the far corner of Dachwald for some time—how long he was unsure—but he knew of one thing: It had been too long. He yearned for another task from Master. He suspected, deep down, that Master had gotten rid of them because he could no longer tolerate them. And that would have been most justified. But—and at this thought Chip’s wings trembled slightly as they cut through the chilly air hundreds of feet above the forests below—he felt that perhaps Master needed him. He was different. Much different. It would be risking life and wing at the mouth of Black Demon to approach Master unsolicited, but he felt that preferable to the ongoing dreariness of his life with his fellow konulans.
Chapter 10
As Chip began to near Master’s lair, his heart thumped viciously inside its small chamber and not solely because of the nearly ceaseless flying he had done over the last several days but also because of the great apprehension he had in arriving to Master unsolicited. In fact, not just arriving unsolicited but in outright disobedience, something that gave him an additional shudder every time that dreadful realization came upon his mind like the specter of some coiled viper outside his nest poised and ready to strike.
But there was yet another reason for worry on top of these valid woes. An inexplicable feeling had been knocking at the door of his mind. It had been infrequent at first but growing more and more persistent the closer he got to Master’s lair.
He was becoming surer by the moment that Master was in some kind of dire dilemma and was in great need of his services. The thought of this emboldened him and caused his wings to beat ambitiously through the air, almost producing the well-known buzz of the bumblebee but falling slightly short of that regal sound. At first, this thought had caused him fear of rejection. He imagined his woe after Master berated him for returning early and perhaps fed him alive to Black Demon.
But the closer he got to Master’s lair, he became so sure of Master’s need for him that his anxiety became almost wholly composed of concern for Master.
Almost there! His heart soared as he saw the edge of the cliff, and he went diving over it doing the spinning-top drop with which he had momentarily impressed Laura before that no-good Max had stolen her admiration by presenting her with some ghoulish worm. As he spun around and around picking up speed, he realized he had better decelerate, as he was almost level with the cave’s entrance. Arching his back and spreading his wings, he transformed the drop into an abrupt yet aesthetic upward arc, completing a semi-circle before then practically gluing himself to the wall.
What he saw nearly took his breath away.
He saw Master being hauled through the air by the talons of that majestic bird he had envied since as long as he could remember. This alone was nearly enough to put him into shock, but when he saw this insolent bird throw Master into his abode like some unwanted parasite he almost plummeted down to earth with all the graceless clumsiness of a human. His heart sank only deeper when he saw this treacherous bird call out dozens of fellow conspirators who hove into view and blocked the exit to Master’s home.
Oh, how he wished in that moment for their endless wingspan, their razor-sharp talons, their crushing beaks! He would have fought them all valiantly, and had he taken out one or two of the treacherous fiends in defense of Master, death would be but a small sacrifice to pay for so worthy a contribution. But alas, his tiny wings, his harmless claws, and his tiny beak, all suited for lesser conquests, such as the killing of worms and grubs, rendere
d such worthy ambitions ill-conceived folly.
His profound despair soared to heights of ecstasy when he saw the clear sky turn unnaturally fast into angry storm clouds and even more-furious lightning bolts that tattooed the sky with angry geometric designs. Nonetheless, he tucked himself more tightly into the small nook of the cliff wall, hoping not to be zapped to dust by one of these awesome lightning bolts, yet still affording himself a view of the action, hoping against hope he would see one of these traitors exploded into powder.
But he soon saw that these villains, while lacking in virtue, were not lacking in valor. They audaciously stormed the lair, and to Chip’s immense disappointment, he soon saw the storm clouds dissipating. He was sure Master had met his end at the talons of these murderers.
But then . . . hope! He noticed the pholungs were scrambling around to various positions, and he quickly realized Master had escaped and they were watching to catch him if he tried to leave through one of his secret escape routes.
Had Chip been a connoisseur of the opera or the theater, he might have remarked to himself that this greatly excelled the most intense drama he had ever seen unfold. Alas, lacking in such analogies, he merely noted this was the most exciting, yet gut-wrenching thing he had ever seen.
The Almost Champion Page 5
