The Kingmaker Contest

by Troy Clem

  “Him!” Theo exclaimed.

  “Are you sure that is the one?” Dak scoffed. “Not someone a little smaller?”

  “I won’t leave him here,” said Theo.

  Dak rolled his eyes. “Fine. Help too will I,” he relented, hooking one of the fighter’s arms.

  Nagima got the other arm, and together they were able to pull the contestant from underneath the others. Theo grabbed both the legs, and the three carried the shrouded fighter. It was slow and taxing, weaving their way around the other bodies and burning structures.

  As they got close to the doors, they saw the guard posted out front. He was staring right at them but hadn’t reacted to them closing in. “Locked up I am going to be,” Dak moaned. “I know I am.”

  “Moving you must keep,” said Nagima quietly. “Think we belong he must.”

  “Waiting until we get close enough to shoot he is,” replied Dak.

  “Forward you will move, with your head down,” said Nagima, chin to her chest to get as deep in her hood as possible.

  They were only about twenty yards from the door and closing, but the guard still had no reaction to their approach. “Help us!” implored Theo.

  The guard startled, pulled out his musket, and aimed it at them. “Where’d ya come from?”

  “Oh no,” said Dak. “Here we go.”

  “You didn’t see us?” Theo asked as his party slowed at the sight of the musket barrel. “We’ve been coming right at you for a few minutes. This man needs help.”

  “Woah,” said the guard. “Let’s not change the subject. “Where did you come from?”

  “I am Theo, ward of Losik, Governor of Rigol, and this man needs help.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means,” replied the guard as his attention shifted to Nagima. “Look up at me,” he demanded, but Nagima did nothing. “I said look at me.” The guard put the tip of his bayonet on her chest and lifted it slowly until it hit her chin and raised her head, allowing him to see her face. He jumped back. “Damn Sig,” he yelled as he straightened out his gun and aimed it at Nagima’s head.

  “Back off,” said Dak.

  “You’re gonna need to shut up,” said the guard. “Need some help up here,” he yelled over his shoulder at the door. “I need some damn backup!”

  “Look,” said Theo. “I am ward of Losik, Governor of Rigol, and these are my guides. She has nothing to do with anything that happened here. She saved my life—”

  “I don’t know or care who you are,” the guard interrupted, never taking his eyes or aim off Nagima.

  A small door within the huge wooden door opened, and a Guard captain came out. “Who are these people?” he asked.

  “It's a goddamn Sig, captain,” the guard replied.

  “I am Theo, ward of Losik, Governor of Rigol,” Theo said to the captain.

  The captain looked at Theo. “Woah, yeah, you are,” he said. “This is that kid they’ve been going on about.”

  “This man needs help,” Theo said, looking down at the fighter they were holding.

  “Bull!” the captain replied.

  “I can hear his heart beating,” Theo said. “He’s definitely alive.”

  The captain laughed. “Hoo! Well I’ll be damned. We’ll be eating with the king tonight!”

  “What about the Sig,” the guard asked.

  “They're with me,” Theo said.

  “Take ‘em to the dungeon,” the captain replied. “Let someone else figure out what’s what.” He gestured to the fighter in the shroud. “Get someone over here to help carry that one. We need to take him and the boy to the King’s chambers immediately.”

  “I’m not going without my friends,” Theo replied.

  “Fine,” exhaled the captain. “You can all go to the dungeon.” He knocked on the small door. “Get out here and earn your keep!”

  The King’s Council

  Emmen leaned against the cold stone fortress walls and rested his frail body while the Royal Guard continued to march away from the large entry doors and toward their barracks. About a hundred yards away, directly ahead of Tess, at the end of the corridor, was the arboretum—an indoor forest lit through an opening above and filled with autumn trees, purple flowers, green grass, and short shrubs that were all common to the mountains. In its center stood a sort of natural monument: a thousand-foot-tall oak tree that was the largest in the entire Drasque mountain range. With the hundred-foot doors closed completely behind them, sunlight from the arboretum was the only source of illumination in the corridors, filtering through the yellow and red leaves to give an orangish hue. The oil lanterns that hung on the wall every few feet were unlit—unusual for Ironhead, as diligent servants typically would have lit them well before sunset, but nothing was usual about that day.

  “Ya gonna make it?” Tess asked Emmen.

  Emmen had leaned against, and then slid down, the wall, and was now sitting on the floor with his legs splayed out. “You did good, lass. I will survive thanks to you.”

  “Yeah well, see ya ‘round, I guess,” she said. “Now that we're back in the fortress you can do what ya need ta and I can…” Tess thought about what things she might do. They all involved Pasqual; she resisted the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “Wait, Tess,” Emmen said, attempting to stand—but in his weak state, the effort amounted to no visible change in his position.

  Tess snapped out of her sad thoughts. “A’wright, sure. Don’t go dyin’ on me.”

  “This body isn’t what it once was,” replied Emmen, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I could use more of your assistance if you’re free of prior commitments. I would find one of the assistant librarians but…”

  “I’ll ‘elp ya, old man,” Tess said. “But don’t put me ta work organizing books or nothin’.”

  Tess helped Emmen up and gave him an arm to lean on as he told her which corridors to travel. They turned down a side corridor and up a compact spiral staircase behind a hidden door in the wall, of which Tess had been previously unaware. As they went up the rickety staircase, Emmen was leaning hard on Tess for help with every step. There were several doors to exit as they spiraled up, but they passed each one, continuing to the top. By the time they reached the final door, Tess’s back, arms, and legs felt as if they were on fire.

  They exited the staircase into an opulent hallway—though much narrower and shorter than the main corridors typical of the fortress. Tess had thought herself knowledgeable about Ironhead’s layout, but she had never seen that hallway before. Then again, she’d never seen the hidden door that led here either. Every wall was wood-paneled and decorated with paintings, tapestries, cabinets, or mirrors—covering every inch that wasn’t taken up by a door.

  At the far end of the hall, two guards were posted outside the largest and most ornately carved of any of the doors. Emmen walked up and entered without a second glance. Tess followed closely behind, stayed quiet, and didn't make eye contact—she felt out of place amongst the finery, and became self-aware of how dirty she must be. They entered an octagonal shaped room with no windows. There were four doors (including the one they entered from) filling four walls, and on the other four hung historical paintings of the first contest. Tess was familiar with the paintings. They all had the same name: Death of Domm. They had not always hung in that room; she remembered seeing them on display in the library before. They must have been moved into this room to commemorate contest day as a symbol of glory. Tess just found it twisted.

  In the center of the room was a round table. The largest chair—clearly meant for the king—was empty; four of the other seven chairs were filled. The King’s Council became silent and stared at Emmen and Tess as they entered. Tess immediately noticed Servantis and her heart leapt with joy to see him alive—she wanted to run to him and hug him, but Emmen was putting much of his weight on her arm. If she ran, he would certainly fall to the ground.

  Royal Vizier Borth had stood up from the table when they entered. “I thou
ght you were…” she trailed off and slowly sat back down. Borth was short with a round face. When Tess had seen her around the fortress, she’d always had an unpleasant expression—but the frown on her face now was more pronounced than normal.

  Olister was as wrinkled as ever, seated next to Borth and leaning over to put a caring arm around her. “Are there more survivors?” asked the priest, patting Borth’s upper back and talking for the clearly distraught Vizier.

  “Not that I’ve seen,” said Emmen, moving toward a chair with Tess’s assistance and taking a seat at the table. Tess stood behind Emmen, making herself small.

  “We heard reports that King Rev was pulled out of the viewing box.” Servantis added.

  “I didn’t see any of that,” Emmen said, adjusting himself in the hard chairs and finding it difficult to rest his worn back.

  “Well, what news of the King have you brought?” Borth blurted.

  “I didn’t see King Rev I’m afraid,” said Emmen.

  “We must act as if the King has died and prepare for the worst,” said the only other person in the room who had not yet spoken, the same enormously fat man Tess had seen with Olister in the church. She didn’t know who he was, but he was clearly important.

  “We act as if King Rev is alive and in need of rescue,” said Borth. “I am Royal Vizier, voice of the King, and only I can command in his absence.”

  “He is dead,” the fat man said. “Not absent, dead. Your power ended with his life.”

  Borth ignored him. “Prepare a squad to mount a search,” she said to Servantis. “I think we have those Sigs on the run, but send your most discreet men to be safe.”

  “You’re right,” said the fat man. “We have them on the run, and now it is time to strike with everything we have. Destroy them before they can build back up.”

  “Go. Do your King’s will, Servantis,” said Borth.

  “She is not the King,” boomed the fat man. “We have heard dozens of reports saying the King died in the fire.”

  “And a report that he was pulled from the flames and dragged into the tree line,” replied Borth. “You are not the King either, Losik.” Tess couldn’t believe that the fat man was the famous Governor of Rigol. Losik was a legendary fighter that fought alongside the Old Mage and King Tu at the battle of Graad. The fat man didn’t look like a warrior, or even close to old enough to have fought next to Emmen in those legendary fights. He looked more like an inflated animal bladder come to life.

  “One report, given to us by someone close to you, mentioned King Rev being dragged to the trees.” replied Losik. “She just didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You think Metsi lied to spare my feelings?” Borth laughed. The door swung open and everyone’s eyes darted to see who was entering.

  “I’m so sorry,” said the guard, squeezing next to Emmen at the table and pushing Tess aside to place the severed head of King Rev—with a Sigandar arrow piercing through his eye and out his ear—down on the surface.

  Borth screamed and cried and clambered around the table, knocking Tess further away from Emmen. “I’ll rip those bastard Sigs apart!” She grabbed the head and cradled it in her arms like a baby.

  “Where did you find this?” asked Servantis.

  “It was fired from the tree line,” the guard said. “And landed at our feet.”

  Pulling a magnifying glass from his tattered cloak, Emmen leaned out of his seat toward Borth to get a better look. “This was shot from a bow at the tree line?” he questioned.

  “They must still have enchanted arrows,” asserted Olister.

  “This is meant to scare us,” replied Losik. “Probably their final arrow.”

  “Where is his body?” muttered Borth as she stroked the King’s hair.

  “Actually,” said the guard. “The rest of him has also been sent over as well. Piece by piece.”

  Borth let out a soft yelp as her fingers continued smoothing the King’s hair, pulling knots and dirt out of the once pristine strands.

  “Still think they’re out of arrows?” Olister asked Losik.

  “Yes,” Losik said. “This doesn’t negate my point. If they had a large complement of arrows remaining they wouldn’t have stopped raining them down upon us.”

  “Take me to him,” Borth told the guard as she gently closed the King’s eyes.

  The guard nodded and pushed Tess against the wall as he went for the door. Borth shuffled out holding the King’s severed head delicately in her arms as if she was going to reattach it and save him.

  “We must send word to Gorkoth,” said Losik. “I’m certain he’s already furious for being left off the invite list for the contest.”

  “Probably not after what happened,” Olister remarked.

  “Nevertheless, he can’t be the last to find out about King Rev’s death.”

  “That troll will just try to seize power,” added Servantis.

  “Succession has been broken,” replied Losik. “The Empire is at its weakest. We need to create strong unity between the governors if the Empire is going to survive.”

  “Another contest must be held as soon as possible,” replied Olister. “That should be the first priority.”

  “A contest is the least of our worries,” said Losik. “The cities could use this as an opportunity to assert their independence. Do you want another Kalesque on our hands?”

  “A contest should be had to ensure succession continues, before the other governors try take control,” Olister said. “You are not the king. You only have power over Rigol. Or is this your way of asserting Rigol’s independence?”

  “And what power do you have, priest?” Losik asked.

  “Ain’t Servantis king now?” Tess asked, drawing everyone’s attention for the first time. Did she really say that out loud? She felt like an unprepared actor as the curtains opened, standing in the open space between the door and the table with all eyes suddenly on her.

  “Who is this little girl?” Losik demanded.

  “She is with me,” responded Emmen.

  “You should know better,” said Losik. “We don’t allow aides of any kind within these eight walls.”

  “Well if yer gonna kick me out anyway,” said Tess, walking toward the table. “Someone explain ta me why Servantis ain’t king? Until last week ‘e was next in line. The contest was supposed ta replace ‘im, but no one won. So don’t that mean ‘e’s not replaced?”

  “The King decreed Servantis was unfit to be second in line, and the Council voted to replace him,” Emmen explained, craning around to look at Tess. “He has no chance to be king. Nobody’s second in line.”

  “If ‘e was good enough to be second in line once,” Tess said. “‘E should be good enough now.”

  “Get her out of here,” said Losik with a clenched jaw. “I will not ask again.”

  Tess walked toward the exit with all eyes watching her.

  “Sorry, lass,” Emmen said softly from his seat.

  The door swung open in front of her. She leapt out of the way as three guards burst in carrying something large. She didn’t get a good look in the commotion before they set it on the round table.

  Servantis leaned over the table, jaw slowly dropping with realization. “It can’t be.”

  “Take off the shroud,” Losik told the guards. “Is he alive?”

  “Ya can ‘ear ‘is ‘eartbeat if ya put yer ear to ‘is chest,” said a guard.

  Tess got to her feet and saw the contest fighter lying on the table as the guards removed his helmet. She knew right away, before his face was revealed. No one else could have been that big.

  Squally! She wanted to scream and jump on the table and hug him, but she could barely even see him through the space between two of the guards.

  The shroud was removed. “Pasqual?” Servantis looked concerned.

  With the helmet removed, everyone’s focus was drawn to Pasqual’s eyes, darting around from face to face. He didn’t smile. He seemed to have limited movement: his eye
balls could move freely, he could flare his nostrils very slightly, and twitch his lips just a twinge—but the rest of his body was eerily still.

  “Why isn’t he talking?” Losik asked.

  “He’s in shock,” said Olister. “He’s been through a lot.”

  Emmen got closer. “He doesn’t look shocked.” He took a small dagger from his tattered cloak and poked Pasqual where two pieces of armor met.

  “What are you doing?” Servantis jumped.

  “The boy can’t feel a thing,” said Emmen. “He probably can’t walk. I’ve seen this type of injury before, during the war.”

  Losik looked at the guards. “Leave now.” The three guards exited. Tess kept quiet and out of Losik’s line of sight.

  “What can be done?” Servantis asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know of any treatment for such an injury,” replied Emmen. “We should call for a medic, but… I doubt he could do anything.”

  “Come on, old mage,” said Servantis. “You have to know of some magic that could heal him.”

  “This is beyond me, I'm afraid,” said Emmen. “If he doesn’t show signs of recovery soon, he will likely starve to death as I have seen with most others in his situation.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Tess said out loud by mistake. Her mouth was betraying her, but she wasn’t going to let Pasqual die.

  “Why is she still here?” Losik asked.

  “Have some mercy, Losik,” said Servantis. “This is her cousin.”

  “Just get them both out of here,” said Losik.

  “Ya can’t tell the King what ta do,” said Tess.

  Losik laughed. “Servantis is not king. When are you going to get that through your small mind.”

  Tess pointed to the table. “Pasqual is king.”

  “He’s not king,” argued Losik.

  “‘E survived the contest,” said Tess, pointing and re-pointing at the table. “Now I may ‘ave been wrong ‘bout Serv, but I know what this makes Squally.”

  “Pasqual is king,” announced Servantis with an official tone, as if this were a proper decree.

  “King Rev booted you from succession because your broken leg made you unfit to be king,” said Losik. He pointed to Pasqual. “He’s just waiting for death. You were far more fit than this… thing.”