A few years before the novel ‘The Demon-on-Stilts’ begins, House Gotharus is shaken to its core.
These Are the King’s Men
Garon cursed as he stumbled out of the storeroom with an armload of cured meats. He barked at the serving boy, who kicked over a crate of cabbage as he rushed to take the spice-rubbed pork from the castle chef. Garon would have cuffed him, but his hands were occupied with sausages and the cellar key. The boy stared blankly, frozen in place until Garon shouted at him to take the meats to the prep room. Then he turned to lock the heavy oak door. The chef would not allow any of his staff in the storeroom. Too many sticky hands, he thought.
Garon clomped back to the main cooking room and glowered at his gossiping staff. He watched as the vegetable chopper elbowed the butcher and silence fell in the boisterous kitchen. He glaredat his cooks as they slowly turned back to their workstations to prepare lunch for the castle. There were two hundred people in the castle to feed daily, and Garon had a staff of gossiping lollygaggers. He was about to launch into a tirade when the kitchen door burst open to reveal the trembling laundress.
“Ester, who said you could come into my kitchens without license? Get yer fat legs back upstairs and wash yer lord’s sheets. There will be no gossip for yer blathering mouth today.”
Garon watched the laundress inhale deeply before she shouted at the room. “The king is dead! The king is dead!”
There was a sharp intake of breath as trays and utensils clattered on the enormous stone working bench. A dense quiet cocooned the kitchen staff as all eyes fell on the young, plump laundress. Garon watched Ester’s ruddy skin blush at the unexpected attention. The cook grabbed hold of a bench and steadied himself at the news.
“The king is dead,” the cooks whispered. “The king is dead. The four-god has taken the king.”
Garon shook his head and swallowed hard. He was Chef Garon of Castle Conrad, a loyal servant. It was a time for mourning, but also a time for direction. He stared hard at his hang-abouts. “The king is dead. Long live the new king. Long live the new king! Ardok II is dead. Long live King Ardok III!” He looked expectantly at his staff in the immense central cooking room.
“Long live King Ardok III,” the men and women mumbled.
“Long live King Ardok III!” Garon shouted angrily.
“Long live King Ardok III!” came the disgruntled chorus.
The chef looked at the faces that surrounded him and was met by a mix of fear and satisfaction. Traitors, he thought. Miserable, traitorous dogs. Employed by House Gotharus, yet they barely acknowledged the passing of their great King Ardok II. Yes, King Ardok II had been a hard man, but he had paid them and put a roof over their heads. Garon would have his back-stabbing cooks flogged if he could, but no one listened to the chef—except the castle steward during the monthly tallies.
“There weren’t no public execution, eh?” the butcher asked. “There ’ave always been public executions with the axe gibbet.” Edsend was known to have spoken against House Gotharus in the taverns, but Garon didn’t have the proof he needed to have him expelled, or worse. The chef scowled at the gleeful sneer painted on the butcher’s face.
“No,” Ester said. “Only high clergy from the church, some nobles, judges, and important officers. They told me it was right and fair. So they told me.” She bit her lip and cringed at the menacing stare from Garon.
“Right and fair?” he barked. “Those rebels have betrayed our holy rulers of House Gotharus! The throne belongs to the man blessed by our Church of the four-god! Ardok II was our king! Long live King Ardok III!”
Garon listened to the grumblings in disgust. He had served House Gotharus for decades, first as an assistant poulterer at ten years of age, and had risen to be the chef, responsible for all the kitchens. He had learned letters and tallies thanks to his old master, the chef of the beloved Ardok I, a king long dead. Garon spilled his gratitude eagerly onto any high-level castle official whenever he could, especially when it was uncalled for. A fawning bootlicker, they called him. His staff whispered in the corridors that he was a fawner. Traitors, one and all.
“Now what happens?” asked the apprentice baker. “What happens to us? Are we to prepare the castle lunch?”
“You are to do as you are told, Sten,” Garon snapped. “Tend to your fire and fix that marzipan cake. Look at the patchwork crust you made. It looks like the cat killed a rat on it.”
Garon watched a cowed Sten turn back to his bench to fiddle with the sweet, which was nearly perfect. It didn’t matter to Garon. He wanted order and perfection and silence in everything. He expected obedience to his position and unquestioned loyalty to House Gotharus. Yet he was surrounded by traitorous vermin. Foul-thinking rebels filled his kitchen.
“Chef Garon,” Ester said as she twisted her hands. “You are wanted upstairs. The Lord Steward wishes to see you. If you please, Master Garon.” She curtsied clumsily.
Garon nodded slowly. He would have no time to change into something more suitable, and he cursed the fact that he had helped transport the flour. The backbreaking work was for an apprentice, not a master chef, but they were behind this morning. He grimly thought of how many had not appeared in the castle’s kitchen this morning, likely because of the grim gossip of the king’s murder. Garon admitted he had heard the rumors in the state dining room yesterday but had chosen to ignore them. How had his staff known that Ardok II’s murder was to take place this morning? He cursed inwardly to the four-god for taking his beloved monarch. The king was dead, he thought. Long live the new king.
“Ester, go up and announce to the Lord Steward that I am on my way,” he said.
The laundress curtsied again and hurried out of the kitchen. Garon fixed the spot where she’d stood, put a hand to his head, and walked through a small door that led to the vegetable and broth cooking area. He all but smashed the nose of the junior cook who stood on the other side, eavesdropping. He gave him a withering look but said nothing as he stalked past the tense apprentices. Garon ascended a half flight of steps to a door that led to the kitchen’s chancery. He removed his chef’s vest and dusted himself off. Garon donned a surcoat and changed his cap, hoping he was presentable to the Lord Steward. He checked the door twice to ensure that it was locked and retraced his steps. As he left the kitchen for the upper levels, he barked orders at his gossiping kitchen staff and watched them scramble to their posts. Traitors, he thought.
Lord Steward Donlet Sellus of House Gedid pored over his ledger. The dismal news had barely slowed him, and he quickly quilled new orders. He was determined not to show the strain that the events had put upon him. Until the coronation of Prince Ardok, the heir apparent was not officially king, and the Lord Steward had responsibility over the castle. This legal technicality was lost on the domestic staff, and he greeted them with “Long live king Ardok III!” to keep up morale. He continued to scribble quickly until he heard a knock. He looked up and watched as his reeve quietly rose and opened the door to the soldier standing guard.
“Lord Steward, Master Garon the chef!” The square-shouldered soldier boomed.
In slogged a small, wily man with ferret-like eyes. Each time Donlet looked at him, he wondered if he was planning to scurry under a table or crawl up on a windowsill. There was little to like about the man himself, a groveller with an obnoxious penchant for reminding everyone about his efficiency. Donlet knew him to be completely loyal and capable of running the kitchen, and he would need the little man’s fawning devotion to weather the storm. The Lord Steward had no idea what would happen next, but the rebels had taken the most shockingly dangerous and blasphemous step that could be fathomed. The peasants, led by traitorous rebels, had murdered their own king.
“Lord Steward, at your full disposal.” Garon tipped his hat and bowed. Donlet couldn’t understand why, but he found the man’s every gesture irritating. His distasteful monthly meetings to look at the expenses had always gone flawlessly. Garon didn’t steal. Garon didn’t cheat. Garon obeyed all orders without question. Donlet despised the obsequious Garon.
“Chef Garon, I take it you are aware of the blasphemous tragedy that has befallen House Gotharus, holy rulers of the Centerlands?”
“Yes, Lord Steward.” Garon glanced to the reeve as if seeking support, then looked back to Donlet. “The king is dead. Long live king Ardok III!”
Donlet suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the ignoramus. “Long live King Ardok III.” He tapped his chin as he scrutinized the chef. “These are dangerous times that we live in. When times are troubled, we need to keep ourselves steeled. Would you agree, Chef Garon?”
“Uh, yes, Lord Steward.” Donlet watched the chef squirm. “Lord Steward, there will be no swords for my staff, yes?”
Donlet furrowed his brow. “Why would there be swords in the kitchen?”
“If we are to keep ourselves steeled, my lord.”
“It is an expression that means—oh, never mind!” The Lord Steward struggled to contain his exasperation in front of the halfwit. “Chef Garon, I will need you to keep up business as usual. There is to be no faltering in your services. Meals are to be provided punctually. Expenditures are to be contained. Idle gossip is to be repressed. Do you understand, Chef Garon? There is to be no frivolous talk in the kitchen.”
“Yes, Lord Steward.”
“We are at war, Chef Garon. There is only room for patriots in Castle Conrad. Be sure that your staff fully understand this.”
“Yes, Lord Steward.” Donlet scowled as the little man danced from foot to foot.
“Well then, I can see you wish to say something. Out with it.”
“Lord Steward, there is the butcher! The man talks rebel talk in the ale houses. He—he says things against our Holy House Gotharus. I’m sure of it!”
“Do you have proof of this? Have you heard these treasonous words with your own ears? Now is not the time for idle speculation, Chef Garon. Rumor is weakness, and weakness damages the spirit.” He stared at the chef until he saw his eyes drop.
“No, Lord Steward. I have not heard it with my own ears.”
“Then until you do, do not speak of it with me. Keep your staff busy—busier than it ever has been. Make sure they finish their day exhausted.” He paused and picked up his quill. “Should you hear talk against Holy House Gotharus with your own ears, you are to inform me immediately. You may go.”
“Yes, Lord Steward. I, um, Lord Steward, I am your loyal servant. You can count on me.”
“I have no doubts, Chef Garon.”
Donlet watched the groveling little man slouch past his assistant and out the door. Perhaps he had been too harsh with Garon, he thought. After all, the chef was blindly loyal. Donlet knew Garon was right about traitorous talk in the kitchens, just as it was present elsewhere inside the castle walls. But with the rebels in control, it would be unthinkable to act even if he had solid proof of treasonous talk. Donlet could do little more than appear to take disloyal sentiments seriously. He could pretend that punishment would be severe for anyone who was proven to have spoken out against Gotharus. In reality, the Lord Steward could do nothing, as the great house’s power in Achart dwindled by the hour. Perhaps Castle Conrad could hold for a time, but without control of the city, House Gotharus would fall to Cassian Stanric and Armand Guiscard. He sighed and looked at his reeve.
“Fridel, that was the last of the administrators, was it not?” Donlet said in Noblesse.
“Yes, Lord Steward. You have spoken with the captain of the guard, the head of the domestic servants, the master entertainer, the marshal, the royal chamberlain, and the chief groundskeeper.” The reeve cleared his throat. “Your lordship has but the most difficult task to attend to.”
Donlet nodded grimly. He was tasked to run the castle and did not need the royal family to inform him of his duties, not even in times of extreme duress. Governing the castle was his solemn responsibility, from the mundane to the complex. Now he had to face the royal family, the Holy General and High Priest of the Church of the Whole. At the toll of the castle bell, Donlet rose to join the war council.
Holy General Kerad Ral stood straight as an arrow in the war room. He was broad shouldered and narrow waisted, with short, steel-grey hair that crowned his crow-like features. The Holy General was a stern man who respected strength, boldness, and discipline, qualities sorely lacking in the heir. He stared at Prince Ardok, unable to mask his distaste. The prince’s late father, King Ardok II, had been beheaded, and his foppish successor was clearly looking for a chance to escape the war room in Castle Conrad. Kerad Ral was certain he was looking for an excuse to slip out to visit his favorite whorehouse. Kerad Ral had no choice but to serve this peacock, but he was a far cry from his father. The Holy General admitted the late king had been too harsh, but a firm hand was needed to rule the Centerlands, strength his son sorely lacked. The prince excelled in whores, billiards, and ballroom dance.
“Prince Ardok, Holy General Kerad Ral,” a portly, cobalt-robed figure said in Noblesse. “Lord Steward Donlet has arrived. We will begin.” Kerad Ral watched the High Priest Kreg-Dor Ral dawdle toward the large table without even a cursory bow. He found the priest infuriating but held his tongue at the lack of protocol. Kerad Ral had lost favor with their master and was forced to defer to the prelate. The priest’s eyes were the deep black pools of a man highly skilled in Despair, his plump face devoid of sympathy. Kerad Ral shared the special abilities of the High Priest, but knew he could not match his power of the mind. The Holy General was a man of war, and greatly preferred the stark brutality of the battlefield to the inner workings of thought-twisting powers.
As Kerad Ral sat, he watched Prince Ardok prance lightly to the large oval table. He had to resist using Despair to halt the ninny’s dancing steps across the marble floor. The late King Ardok II had been right to quip that his son was as incompetent with the sword as he was able in the ballroom. The only talent the dandy had was tallying gold. Kerad Ral could only hope that once he had crushed the rebels, the prince could fill the coffers via suitable trade contracts and taxation. The late sovereign had tried to compensate for mercantile failures with years of tyranny and had lost his head when the serfs, pushed by traitorous nobles, revolted. The Holy General prayed to the Whole God that Prince Ardok would not repeat his father’s mistakes.
Holy General Kerad Ral stared at the prince until he saw him cringe and sit. Though Ardok was the crown prince of the Centerlands, Kerad Ral would not suffer his foolishness and expected discipline. King Ardok III, he thought. The name and title would be a constant reminder of his imposing father. The prince had not been given the name upon birth; it had been bestowed upon him at six years old after his older brother died during a reckless horse ride that left the fop as the heir apparent.
“My lords,” Kreg-Dor Ral intoned. “The power of the Whole God is with us. May we be fierce in our faith.”
“We are fierce in our faith!” the tabled thundered, Kerad Ral with more conviction than the others.
“The blasphemous murder of our beloved King Ardok II of House Gotharus must be avenged. But we are thinking men, not impetuous dandies, and the governance of the Kingdom of the Centerlands comes before all.” The High Priest caressed the giant onyx on his ring finger. “I invite Holy General Kerad Ral to speak.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Kerad Ral swept his gaze over the men. “If we are to retake the Centerlands, there is no question that we must expel the rebels from the city. We have a tenuous grasp on the lands outside the walls, but the symbol of House Gotharus is Achart. The red-and-black dragon must fly on the parapets as the rebel flags burn. The city must assist in the immediate coronation of the prince before the rebels strengthen their hold. Once the coronation has been completed, we will root out the rebels and reestablish order.” He paused and bore his gaze into the shrinking Ardok. “We have allies in the North and the West. We must make efforts to find the coin to compensate them for their services.”
“Holy General, aside from your need for gold, what of the cannons of Guiscard on our doorstep?” Kreg-Dor Ral’s words were like a stinging whip. General Armand Guiscard had been Kerad Ral’s schoolmate, then colleague, and finally perfidious rival. The smug High Priest took great pleasure in Kerad Ral’s defeat in the battles outside of the city to the conspirator. It burned the Holy General to think that a traitorous minor lord had bested him with cannons. Kerad Ral refused to admit even to himself that Guiscard had deployed superior tactics. He had ordered his men never to name the inconsequential noble lord of the slave-trading House Onfroi in his presence, but Kreg-Dor Ral could not be cowed.
“The half-man will not stop the Holy Gotharus Army, Excellency,” Kerad Ral hissed. “We were caught by surprise with traitors in our midst, and our late king capitulated before the battle was over.”
“Holy General, the fault of your failure is with our late king? What would his son have to say?” Kerad Ral watched a slow smile ooze across the oily face of Kreg-Dor Ral. He could feel his blood boil and wondered if he could deflect a surge of Despair long enough to plant a dagger in the fat priest’s chest.
Instead, he calmed himself and boomed: “Excellency, traitors have weakened House Gotharus. Prince Ardok is well aware of this.” The Holy General knew that the fop was aware of nothing. Politics and dance did not pair well.
“Yes, Holy General, we are aware of supposed traitors in every nook and cranny.” Kreg-Dor Ral turned to the castle’s administrator, and Kerad Ral saw the lord tense. “Lord Steward Donlet, have you spoken to the castle staff?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. I have spoken with all administrators to ensure their minds are focused on their duties and that their lips are sealed.” Donlet adjusted his gold steward’s chain. “They are to drive their staff hard to avoid idle chatter. I will double my visits to them to ensure that they are on task.”
“Very good, Lord Steward. And what have you heard from your administrators regarding their staff? We cannot afford to have traitors under our beds.” Kerad Ral saw Donlet pale, but was impressed that the man did not lose his composure.
“Excellency, I have every confidence in my administrators and their staff. Should any traitorous words be uttered, we will deal with the person swiftly.”
“I expect that you will.” The Holy General felt the wave of Despair as the High Priest fixed the Lord Steward intensely. He saw both the steward and the prince sway and buckle, and for a moment he thought they would lose their senses before Kreg-Dor Ral snapped his attention away from the wavering Donlet. Kerad Ral had deflected the surge with the power of his mind, but had been able to do so easily only because it had not been directed at him. The power of Kreg-Dor Ral’s Despair was imposing, nearly comparable to their master’s ability. The prince and steward took ragged breaths as the High Priest spoke. “My lords, we have many tasks before us. Let us adjourn and meet tomorrow before lunch.”
Kerad Ral watched Kreg-Dor Ral rise without acknowledging the table and walk toward the door. The Holy General was pleased that the Lord Steward had passed the examination of intentions. Donlet was a loyal, able man, and necessary for the stability of the Castle. Kerad Ral bowed to the Lord Steward and prince and swept out of the war room to meet with his marshal.
Kreg-Dor Ral walked slowly toward the chapel to meet with his bishop, Golred Ral. His thoughts were focused on maintaining some semblance of order during the chaos to come. In the Church of the Whole, Kreg-Dor Ral was technically lower on the hierarchy scale, but both Golred Ral and First Prelate Daegaal Ral knew he was the real power guiding the religion, second only to their master. Kreg-Dor had once served as First Prelate before he was forced to abandon the role lest his use of the elixirs be noted by the peasants. Though he looked no more than sixty years, he had lived almost a century and a half, changing roles every generation. But he had not forgotten his years as First Prelate and the most trusted servant of his master. Daegaal was but a pale imitation of what a true leader should be and was not up to the task of defending Achart, the capital of the Centerlands. Kreg-Dor Ral knew only his skill in guidance along with the force of Kerad Ral could turn the tide. The High Priest had been snide with the Holy General, but he admitted the man’s talents as a war leader were necessary to reestablish order.
Kreg-Dor Ral waited as two priests opened the immense double doors of the castle’s chapel of the Church of the Whole. Inside, the stone walls were trimmed with cobalt and gold velvet drapes that hung over wooden benches. A marble carving of the Whole God presided over a stone baptismal font near the back wall. Standing in front of the altar was Bishop Golred Ral, the clergyman responsible for the writing of the yearly Fluid Canons.
“Excellency, I have spoken with First Prelate Daegaal Ral as you have commanded.” Golred bowed deeply.
“I knew that you would, but that can wait, Bishop Golred. We have preparations to make, and we will not have much time to make them.”
“Of course, Excellency. I will suspend the writing of the Fluid Canons to concentrate on the tasks you assign me.”
“You will do no such thing, lest we are inflicted with the wrath of our master. Have the priests continue the copies without you.”
“Excellency, they have not been examined by the First Prelate. I cannot entrust them to—”
“You will do as I say, Golred. We must guide the foppish Prince Ardok before, during, and after his coronation if we are to hold the kingdom together. This is no time for trivialities.”
Kreg-Dor Ral saw a slight tremor in Golred Ral’s face and knew his thoughts. The bishop considered the High Priest’s description of the Fluid Canons as trivial to be blasphemous. The bishop was right, but the High Priest knew he would hold his tongue. Golred Ral would dare not accuse Kreg-Dor Ral of blasphemy.
“Then what are my orders, Excellency?”
“The three of us will divide our work. I will act as first counsel to the king. The fool will need me to negotiate with the Northern heathens. Daegaal will hold firm the Eternal Cathedral. His role is critical, as the Church must be seen to stand with House Gotharus and the peasants, but not with the rebels.” He folded his hands. “You, Golred, will see to our master.”
Golred paled.
“I will act as intermediary between our master and you?”
“Yes, Golred. And find your courage. You look like a frightened schoolgirl in front of a wolf. Serve our master well and you have nothing to fear.” Kreg-Dor Ral knew this was not true. Their master was no longer apt to decapitate a priest in a fit of rage because of a grievous failure, but only because the great force had too few trusted men left. Their master’s anger after the execution of Ardok II had been terrifying to behold. Kreg-Dor was highly skilled with Despair, and though his master was no longer as powerful as in centuries past, the High Priest had been driven to his knees by one single, furious word.
“As you command, Excellency.” Golred Ral swallowed hard as he bowed.
Kreg-Dor Ral waved his bishop away and opened the door to a small cell behind the altar. Inside, the walls were bare save for a small bookcase with scrolls and implements for writing. There was a single writing desk with an alchemical lamp and a chair near the large, barred window. On the wall hung a small onyx slab with black and white candles underneath.
The High Priest sat at the writing desk and picked up the quill to draft his orders. The situation was dire, and it was not the prospect of war that perturbed him. War was inevitable, and without a doubt it would be long and bloody, as neither he nor his master would accept defeat. What disturbed him most was the sensation that something in the Lands had shifted. He sensed that the serfs would no longer accept the order of the Paramount, and this would bring about inevitable change and risk an end to the three hundred years of Gotharus rule in the Centerlands. He would have to be swift in coordinating his men to rebalance power in their favor.
Kreg-Dor Ral turned and looked out of the window to the square below. From this distance nothing had changed, yet he knew the dark revolution had begun.
END
Created and written by: Enrico Picchi
Layout and graphics: Aurora Giampaoli
Developmental and copy edit: Aaron Redfern