Fiction Vortex - November 2013 by Fiction Vortex
The guards positioned the doomed in lines of three. Long knives with serrated edges hovered over the torsos of the prisoners while they waited for the killing order to be given.
Behind them, on a throne carved from whale bone, sat the king. Randall had the look of a well-fed corpse that would burst with noxious gasses if one were but to poke him with a stick. He remained motionless save for the constant caressing of a gold-plated crossbow in his lap.
The feigned bloodlust of the crowd was silenced as the mad king raised a single open hand to the sky. King Randall smiled, revealing crooked teeth wrought with decay, and clenched his hand into a fist.
With their liege’s blessing, the executioners began the day’s work. Blood poured from the stomachs of the captives. Their entrails were torn from them and looped around their necks. Their wails were only overshadowed by the frenetic laughter of the king.
His insanity and cruelty make for the perfect incestuous union, the Bard thought, turning his back on the carnage. He sipped from a flagon of wine he had hidden in his tunic, pausing to sniff it to counteract the metallic stench of blood in the air.
“Imbibing a bit of the nectar of the gods, Sir Bard?”
The Bard swallowed a mixture of wine and bile as Countess Morana made her entrance. She wore an exquisite gown of purple and gold with intricate images of creatures of the sea sewn into the arms. “Milady. You are dressed as if you are about to celebrate something.”
“I am so happy that your time in my home did not put a halt to your sharp tongue,” she replied, keeping her face an empty canvas. “I would think that you would want to keep every wit you have when you perform, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Your concern is touching.” The Bard tipped more wine into his mouth. “No doubt this is just a release of all the pent-up caring you could not show me while I was locked in that room for a fortnight.”
“A regrettable precaution. As I explained to you a half-dozen times, your confinement was for your own protection. The streets of Mesa are built on the backs of cutthroats and thieves. We simply could not risk anything unbecoming happening to you, my dear Bard. What would the king say if — instead of a poem fit for a god — all we had to present to him was your looted corpse?”
A high-pitched shriek obliterated any chance the Bard had to retort. A tall prisoner was dying rather poorly below them, much to the delight of the crowd, who cheered louder as the guard struggled to free his blade from the condemned’s bowels.
“Evisceration is such a dull show,” the Countess sighed. She looked out at the growing pile of dying prisoners with boredom bordering on the suicidal. “Unless you dig in deep, the poor bastards will linger on for hours, sometimes even days. I do hope you have saved your voice, Sir Bard. It appears you are going to have to project quite loudly.”
It is such a pity that the layers of make-up she wears do not contain toxins, he thought, imagining how wonderful it would be to watch her throat swell until she choked on her own tongue.
Huntzinger jogged down the hall, accompanied by a squad of four guards. The portly man had to pause to catch his breath several times.
“Milady,” he wheezed, sweat dripping down his nose like raindrops. “Sir Bard, it is nearly time! You must come with me at once! It doesn’t bode well to keep his highness waiting!”
“And with that, I bid you farewell, Sir Bard. I do so hope we meet again before the end. I have found your company to be rather edifying, in a crude sort of manner.”
I wonder, Milady, to which ‘end’ you are referring? The Bard took her hand and brought it to his lips, as custom dictated, the whole time willing himself not to break every finger.
“Come now, Sir Bard! The crowd is fickle! Constant gratification or the mouth-breathers are liable to start fornicating in the streets!”
~~~~~
Huntzinger all but lead the Bard by the hand as they walked into the circus of bloodthirsty sadism. The crowd awoke from a sluggish slumber to cheer the next attraction.
“My friends! It is now time for a rare treat. With us today, from lands far and wide, comes one of the most renowned storytellers of our generation. He is a man of such note, that King Randall the Splendid — in all his godly wisdom — personally selected him to tell the greatest, most important tale of our time, the Tale of His Majesty, King Randall!”
The Bard hid his cringing at the Master of Ceremonies’ voice by pretending to swat at a fly.
The introduction went on for some length, allowing the servants the appropriate time to clear the stage of the dead and dying. The blood had stained the new marble, so a bright blue carpet was laid out for the performance. The Bard avoided tiny clumps of intestines as he walked onto the stage, then kicked several pieces of flesh off the platform, much to the delight of the mob.
“Good day to you all, you patriots and faithful servants of Mesa!” The Bard said with a forced grin. “Thank you for your thunderous applause! But, alas, we are not here to celebrate me!”
The crowd responded with enthusiastic laughs and cheers, as if on cue.
“Why, how very unexpected! I thank you all, you wondrous heroes and heroines of Mesa. It has been quite a decade for you all, hasn’t it? A peace unlike any you have known in your lifetimes! All thanks to the wisdom and divine leadership of your very own King Randall!
“And now — with the king’s permission — I shall sing to you the tale of his Highness’s rise to the throne he so justly earned.”
The Ruler of Mesa caressed his golden crossbow and smiled. “Proceed, kind sir! Tell us all of my exploits!” He regarded the entertainer in the same manner a pet serpent would its afternoon mouse, something that he could toy with for a time before devouring whole.
The Bard raised his hands over his head and breathed in the salty air, trying to find the words — his words — memorized over two agonizing weeks in his corner of hell.
O, Mesa, O friends, heed my tale
Woven not of villains and heroes,
But of truth, and should I fail
In my attempt, wouldst thou
Allow truth to perish on my lips?
Upon thy rear the sea doth encroach
Waiting to reclaim this wayward child
Toward your dwellings, waves do approach,
Yet Mesa fears not such a Natural wild
With perfect balance which never tips.
Unlike man, towards murder, unjustified death,
Blood painting thy streets, be-speckling walls
Until crimson and sorrow became all that was left
For what turns not to rubble when tyrants won’t fall
Such patterns repeating thus carnage ensues.
A decade ago brought a semblance of peace
To a realm daring not to dream of such possibilities,
Until King Randall’s ascension caused bloodshed to cease.
Barely more than a babe, yet great in sensibilities
For more blood he refused to pursue.
Instead breaking the back of the beast, revolution,
Sin hurled back into black depths from whence it did crawl,
Those lusting for the fight sealed their own ruination
By foregoing civility, they themselves did maul,
Paving the way for greatness — such rot and decay.
No rest for the weary, nor for the wicked, indeed.
The Splendid’s first year lacked activity not,
For antiquated gods created the continuous bleed —
Divine wars, the messiest, as it their wont —
Until finally the vanquished are sent on their way.
Falsity done in, the King moved toward matters politic
The affluent trampled o’er each other to secure their right
The callous disregard for their fellow man was comic.
Try and name someone not crippled by those with might.
Oh, Mesa, this wouldst serve as merely the start of your dismay.
The game was rigged. A vicious chea
The burden lay on not on the Haves, but have-nots,
If payment didn’t come, a terrible fate they meet.
The God-King needs subjects for the games he plots.
Here is the so-called justice, lest thou think I jape
Robbing,
Fratricide,
Strong-arming,
Matricide,
And worst of all, the gift of rape
Claiming godly will, The King pursued this definition of peace
Behind closed doors, all of Mesa wept
Praying to half-forgotten Gods that the carnage would cease
None listened save for one who slept.
Sanity has forsaken this place. Reason squashed like a grape.
The decadent malevolence reached its peak with the slaying of the demon.
Sin, long-thought drowned in the stygian deep, found itself returned
Hair the color of the sun being the telltale sign of infection.
The God-King knew this to be the battle of his time. Evil must be burned.
The Great Purge was undertook, In the defense of his good name.
Blonde was the color of the one, true enemy. Those marked were put to slaughter,
Not before the torments of their damned souls were reaped upon their bodies.
Scalps of flaxen-hair adorned the Briny Throne, making the King’s seat softer.
The gulls of sea grew fat upon the corpses so proudly strewn o’er the abbeys.
Upon hearing this, O’Mesa, I have nothing save for disdain!
Oh, my friends heed my words! Sit idle in fear no longer!
For thou live in Mesa! A realm where zealotry does not stand.
Thy ruler is but no God, merely a man, of whom you are the stronger!
Rise up from fear and rise into hate! Let the next stanza serve as your first command!
Rise up and knock the bastard liar—
A sudden jarring stole the breath from his lungs. A crossbow bolt protruded out from his tunic. He rocked from his heels to the tips of his toes, his hand clutching his breast as the blood blossom stretched further across his finery.
The king appeared before him. His wrath so palpable the Bard thought he saw smoke billowing from Randall’s nostrils. He did not speak and simply reloaded his golden weapon, his upper lip curled into a sneer of pure malice.
“My Lord,” the Bard said, his words slurring like a drunkard. “Was it something I said?”
The entire crowd held its collective breath at the aspersion. Even the mighty ocean that flanked the kingdom seemed to be silenced until the quiet was shattered by an ear-splitting scream. Randall’s scream. He berated the Bard for his insolence and made accusations of treason and heresy.
The Bard — for his part — heard none of this. His hearing faded until all he heard was his own heartbeat. I hope he gets on with it soon. Thoughts of the final sleep followed him all the way down to the stained royal carpet as his legs gave out from underneath him.
Bright rays of sunlight beat down on his eyes until the king lumbered over him, shading him with a makeshift eclipse. Randall aimed the crossbow at the Bard’s throat, choosing to kill the poet in the most ironic manner possible.
Well, at least they won’t feed me to those damned gulls. The Bard closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.
His heart beat for several moments, but justice still had not been delivered.
What in the hell is taking so long? Perplexed, the Bard dared to open an eye.
King Randall the Splendid was anything but. He stood hunched over as the crowd bombarded him with debris. Clumps of dirt exploded in brown and black clouds, staining his Highness’s clothes. A well-aimed chunk of cobblestone struck his hand, causing the instrument of the Bard’s death to clatter to the ground.
Despite the rod of metal jutting out of his torso, the Bard rolled onto his side to face his audience. The people of Mesa — long oppressed — were now a wrathful beast ready to devour those that had harmed them.
“Kill the King!”
“Down with the Madman!”
“Guards! Guards!” Randall shouted over his kingdom’s unified voice. “To me! Protect me! This — this demon has beguiled our people with his forked tongue! Kill him and the spell shall break! Hurry!”
A squad of guards marched onto the stage and positioned themselves between the crowd and their ruler. Each man carried a long pike stained with blood from the earlier executions. Their presence exacerbated the crowd’s rage. Stones flew with increased frequency until it appeared as if the sky was raining rubble.
“The demon is increasing the potency of the spell! Kill him! Kill him!”
A brave guard broke rank and moved to end the fallen Bard. He only managed two paces before a large stone crashed against his helm and knocked him to one knee.
With this act, the people of Mesa pounced. Three men leapt onto the stage and attacked the dazed guard. The poor man was disarmed and thrown screaming into the welcoming arms of a grateful kingdom in moments. The remaining guards put up a semblance of a fight before they too became fodder for the mob.
Pity I won’t know how this story ends, the Bard thought as he saw Huntzinger’s head dashed against the ground until his brains spilled out against the feet of his murderers.
The Bard said a silent prayer that the people of Mesa would over-look him in their bloodlust. He watched the remaining chaos unfold until blood-loss from the wound pulled him into a dreamless slumber.
~~~~~
“Sir Bard? Sir Bard? Are you still amongst us mortals?”
Despite their reluctance, his eyes forced themselves open upon hearing the Morana’s voice. Damned Syren is bringing me back to dash me against the rocks.
“Ah! There you are! I almost considered you lost to us!” she said, her words a mixture of feigned sincerity and outright hostility. She sat on the far edge of the very large bed he had been slumbering in, regarding him like an animal that she ought to have put down.
“Milady,” he finally said, coughing up tiny blood-lined bubbles. “To what do I owe this pleasant visit? Was your grief over my near-death experience so all-encompassing that you simply couldn’t function until you rushed to my sick-bed to nurse me back to health?”
The sarcasm was bitter and black. The Bard cared not if the Regent ordered his throat cut right then and there. To his shock, Morana laughed. Not the polite laughter without meaning that all nobility were well-versed in, but true laughter. I wonder where the real Countess is being held, he thought.
“Oh, my dear, sweet, Bard!” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You do entertain me so! I knew that you would perform your task to perfection, and you did not disappoint!”
“What in the ruddy hell are you talking about? I’ve been shot! Perforated by a mad king, no less! How in any sense of the word, would any of that be considered a success?”
“I wonder how someone so witty can possess no wit at all.”
Fury erupted inside the Bard. He fully intended to bid the Countess a stern farewell and board the next ship to anywhere but the bolt wound in his chest had other plans. The stitches grew taut in his flesh, introducing him to a pain he previously considered to be unimaginable.
He collapsed back into the feather-soft linens in a heap of sweat. “Why,” he gasped, swallowing his own blood only to cough up more moments later. “Why am I still alive?”
“Do you recall the saying about Mesa? ’Woe be unto those who linger too long in Mesa. For it is a land stained so thick with blood the tides themselves cannot cleanse it.’ King Randall lingered far too long in this place and it was time for him to be … removed.”
The Bard was overcome with a sudden chill that turned his skin a sickly pallor. “You wanted the riot to happen.”
“Of course I wanted the riot to happen, my dear, injured poet. You cannot have a revolution without rousing the rabble.”
“You couldn’t simply act against Randall, though,” the Bard tented his fingers u
“And you provided that way, Sir Bard. After all, who better than a man of the people to get the people to awaken from their fear-induced slumber?”
“Yet, your plan was not without risk, Milady. What if I had decided to write the poem you hired me to do? One celebrating Randall’s cruelty as gospel? Your plan would have been sunk, as my words would have turned him into the very god he claims to be.”
A breeze of sea air rushed through the room as Countess Morana rose from the bed, blowing her brown hair behind her. She walked into the gust with her eyes closed and arms outstretched, as if trying to embrace the sensation. She did not speak again until the last remnants of the wind slipped through her fingers.
“Will you do me the honor of walking with me once more? I have one more item that requires your attention.”
“On any other day, there would be nothing I’d prefer to do more, Milady. However, as you can see, I cannot even lift myself from my sickbed, let alone walk in the ocean breeze.”
“I am afraid I really must insist,” Morana nodded and two masked guards tore the sheets from the bed and seized the Bard. “Fear not for your injuries, my dear, precious Bard! My guards shall assist you with the greatest of care.”
His crossbow wound sang its own song as he was lifted to his feet by gloved hands. His legs wobbled as the guards shoved him forward. A fresh coat of sweat covered him as he reached the Countess. She paid his state no mind and hooked her arm under his, as she did upon their first meeting.
“To answer your query, if you had done what you were paid to do, my agents within the crowd had instructions to denounce you as a mouthpiece for a tyrant and assassinate you. The riot would have begun, regardless.”
The Bard stopped short. “You meant me to be a martyr.”
“Or another dead villain buried in the funeral pyre that rages in the Courtyard. Either mattered not to me, as long as my goal was achieved.”
They came out to the portico where the impossible task was first bestowed upon the Bard. The calming presence of the place had been wiped away. A column of guards clutching swords lined the perimeter. The waves of the sea were drowned out by terrible screams of agony.