Chapter 2--The King

The King

King Drakanvil took a sip from his cup of wine and grimaced. The wine was cold and today there were be no one to warm it for him. He had mixed feelings about the annual Dragon’s fire festival. It celebrated the rebirth of their small country and helped him remember his own modest origins. He had brought this country back from the brink of destruction and the people had repaid him by making him their King. It was a kindness that he did not want to forget—a boy of common blood becoming King was unheard of, yet no one contested his right to the throne. To honor his journey and to acknowledge the people who supported him, he celebrated with them once a year as a commoner. Part of him enjoyed this time each year as he reflected on his past and how he had arrived at his current station in life. However, he was accustomed to the luxuries of a King now and he despised having to warm his own wine, fix his own breakfast and do all the mundane tasks that a common man must do to live. Until the King returned with a new spear tempered by the Dragon’s fire, all men were to act as equals—the King included. It was tradition. The people loved it. But all this really meant for the King was that he had to fix his own meals and deal with his wretched sons himself. So rather than eat he would drink. This would keep his belly full and his mind too cloudy to be bothered with the constant pestering of his needy sons.

He glanced over the top of his cup as he swallowed another mouthful of cold wine and shuddered. His four sons sat around his throne watching him intently. Their faces were masks of hurt and feigned confusion. It was their eyes that showed their true emotions and staring into them made him shudder. They had the cold, shiftless stare of vultures awaiting their turn at a fresh kill. He had just delivered a terrible blow to their collective egos and they were still mute from the shock of it. Slack jawed they stared at him but he could almost hear the gears of their brains spinning as they tried to counter what had just happened. These boys had been bred into lazy, self important lords and as much as Drakanvil hated to admit it, they disgusted him. He shared no common interests with them and could see very little of himself in any of them. If they did not all have his steel gray eyes, he might have doubted their relation to him. Certainly there was no love lost between them. There was no denying these brats were his but that had not made his decision any harder. The country needed a protector, someone capable of fighting the dragons and his sons were useless, fearful, boys, barely able to dress themselves, so he had made the only decision he could. Now that his decision was final, his sons had banned together and somehow found the courage to face him. They seemed ready to plead or even grovel for what they considered their “rightful inheritance” but none of them showed an ounce of fight. It was sickening.

Not one of them had attended the Dragon’s fire feast last year. Now they all claimed that because of this they had not had proper warning and, consequently, they had been unable to meet the demands of his hasty decree. Their arguments were weak. He had read them in the many letters they had sent over the last several months. The King had decreed whoever killed the most dragons over the next year (regardless of his station in life) would be named heir to the throne and be given the title of Crown Prince. The excitement had been tangible. For one night people had treated him as a kindly father. It had been a rare moment for him and one he still cherished. Best of all he had met a beautiful girl who did not cringe at his touch. They had slipped away together that night but when morning came she was gone. Privately he searched for her but he dared not issue a public search as he wanted her to come to him freely. Most people were hardly able to bare his presence and, in spite of his lofty position, he craved their acceptance. To have met a woman that might be able to truly love him was something beyond what he thought possible. That one evening had been glorious. And now his sons sat before him as a painful reminder of all the fear and loathing he elicited in a people that he wished would love him for all that he had done. In truth, he was lonely and this is was what he despised most about his life. He had brought this kingdom the first peace they had tasted in years. In thanks they had made him their King, but they rejected him as a person. What could he expect? His own sons had cried uncontrollably when he had tried to hold them as babies. Their rejection had cut him deeply but now he only felt disgust for what they had become. He had given away their title and cut off his only tie to them.

All four of King’s sons took great pains to avoid eye contact with him as they stood before him. As the King placed his cup down his eyes met with his eldest son, Ardvan. Ardvan’s mouth opened and a sound like a frightened mule crept out of his throat. He glanced at his brothers as though hoping the King was looking at one of them. He was such an incessant whiner that his voice box needed to warm up with a preliminary whine before he began speaking.

“Speak up boy, I won’t have you braying like a mule.” The King spoke quietly.

Ardvan looked startled; he seemed amazed that the king could tell he was getting ready to speak. However, he gathered himself and proceeded, “Father, how could you do this to us? Giving the rights of the crown to a bastard born child cannot be allowed—the people will be outraged!” He looked to his other three brothers who all bobbed their heads in support. Their backing bolstered him and he continued, “If you pursue this we will be forced to appeal to our blessed mother’s family, may she rest in peace. Even you must understand that they will never let this happen.” He had used his voice to the best of his ability changing from hurt to indignant. Seeing that the boy was ready to continue his pathetic tirade, the King raised his hand to stop him, “First let’s make one thing clear. I will not be threatened or bullied by any son of mine or his uncles. This crown is for the man best suited to the job and that was made abundantly clear when I issued my decree last year. That you chose not to attend the feast is not my problem. You were invited and even warned that I would be delivering a decree of great import to you. You had all the advantages in the pursuit of my crown and you did nothing to gain it. Not one of you even fought a dragon, let alone killed one. The fault for losing your rights to my crown lays upon your own heads, not mine!” He leveled his gaze on all four boys for emphasis then took another swallow from his cup to wet his dry throat.

“Father, Hamred is a scoundrel and a bastard. He is low born in blood and manner. He simply cannot be expected to look after our people.” Ardvan looked to his brothers once again after this little outburst. He often measured the strength of his convictions by the support of his peers. He was charismatic and appeared so strong standing before him but he was weak. Looking at him standing there so proudly the King decided to test Ardvan’s metal.

“Come here,” the King sat at the top of the dais looking down on his boys. It was a breach of custom to approach the King on the dais and Drakanvil could see the fear in his son’s eyes. Ardvan’s hesitance frustrated the King and he spoke louder, “Come here.” He gestured with both hands and knocked his cup of wine from its place on the arm of his throne. As he watched the wine spill over the steps he felt his frustration flow into anger. He took a deep breath to check himself. Drakanvil had taken great care to control his anger over the years because it seemed to reduce even the strongest of his men to weak kneed children. He couldn’t understand it. He was told he was more terrible than a dragon when angry. It made no sense to him but it was a fact he continued to struggle with. The whites of Ardvan’s eyes were showing and his face was drawn in fear but he still stood there. The other three sons were already running for the door.

“You are dismissed Ardvan,” the King waved to the door and his son bolted. As he bent to pick up his fallen goblet his nose caught the familiar smell of sulfur and he felt a burning heat pulse threw his body. He felt sad and relieved as he watched his last son go. It had required some bravery from him stay put after he had sensed Drakanvil’s anger. There were very few men who would not turn and flee when the King was angry. Perhaps that is why he liked Hamred so much. The boy could face the King and keep his wits about him even when the King was angry. Other than the Spearmaker, Drakanvil did not know of any other person who could stand before him when he was like this. He wondered if the girl he’d met last year could.

He wondered if he was a monster.