“Hail!” The King looked bored by the formal salutation the slave yelled loudly, as if to give it more gravitas than his voice could naturally command. But said in that ridiculous Southern accent, the King couldn’t help but smirk behind his hand.
“What news from the valleys,
slave?” He knew full well the man’s name was Garrad, but it was part of his
policy of remaining aloof to know the names of, but not to acknowledge, the
more strategically useful of his inferiors.
“Oh mighty King, ruler of the
four lands, giver of hope and...” the King peered at Garrad and leaned forward
in his throne rather menacingly.
“Just tell me the news, slave.”
Verging on panic, Garrad cleared
his throat and stood up as straight as he could. His beautiful bronze skin shone like a
tiger’s pelt in the streaks of sun that dived through the long gaps in the
stone that served for windows.
“There is trouble in the South,
oh great one.” A harrumph from the King
prompted Garrad to continue rapidly.
“There has been a plague of dust
that has coated the corn, and the crops wither.” The King’s brows furrowed, his pale cheeks
beginning to redden with anger.
“Oh my King, we have done all we
can, we have prayed to you for rain to wash away the dust, but in the South
we... we did not expect the ...” the King shifted in his seat and leaned even
further forward. Seated a meter above Garrad on his high throne, the effect was
mortifying. Garrad stuttered
“we, we, we don’t know why but
the rain won’t come. And, and and..” the King’s patience was growing thin and
Garrad feared that it may be the messenger who was blamed for the message. His brief, uneventful life seemed to be
standing by his side in the form of a miniature of himself, laughing and
pointing as if to say ‘and it all comes down to this?!’
Garrad fell to his knees. “We
have no taxes to bring you – the crops have failed. Our people are
starving.” The King sat back, his face
clearing a little as he entered a realm of slightly more considered thought. Garrad trembled before him, as he should, his
eyes cast to the ground.
“And... my King...” the Royal
brows furrowed again, wondering what other disaster this petty excuse for a
human being wished to lay upon his beloved King! “the animals are behaving oddly.” He said the last almost in a whisper so that
the words drifted up like the motes of dust caught in the shafts of sunlight.
There was a deathly quiet. It must have lasted ten or more seconds – but
to Garrad it felt like the time it took for a sword to descend upon his poor
neck. But no physical blow was
received. Just a jolt as the King
quietly, and most penetratingly, asked one simple question:
“And what do you mean by that?”
Garrad looked up. With what he had seen over the last month,
and on the week long journey it had taken to reach the King, he realised that
there was nothing more he could fear. He
stood, brazenly, and looked the King as close to in the eye as he could whilst
looking up at such an angle.
“My King, strange things have happened. First the dust, then the heavy clouds that hang over us but do not rain. The skies are dark and the air is...” Garrad didn’t quite know how to explain it – his vocabulary was fine when it came to cattle, to crops, to people. But this was something more, he felt, within the realm of the Priests and beyond his understanding let alone his ability to explain. He did his best.
“The air tastes wrong. The animals are unhappy and they are behaving
differently.” The King remained quiet. Garrad was not sure whether this was a
good sign or the calm before the storm, but he knew he had to explain why he
brought no taxes from the South. Garrad
continued “the animals are also changing.” He paused. This would take some explaining. He wished
now that he had brought more than one of the geese with him to show the King
just what he meant, but the animal had died shortly after he left the South and
its corpse had spoiled so quickly it was not possible even to eat it!
The King leaned down “What do
mean?” Garrad gulped anxiously, but
stood his ground.
“The animals are ... “ (he didn’t
know the word ‘metamorphosing’, it would have been helpful if he had) ”...
doing weird things. They are changing
shape, and growing feathers and fur and just not behaving normally! Our village elder was attacked by a chicken
that grew fangs” Garrad’s voice faltered as he realised how ridiculous he
sounded.
The King sat back. A smile played
across his face. Ah... so this was how the South were going to get out of their
tithe! A tall story; did they really
think he’d fall for such nonsense?
Garrad continued to ramble,
talking of goosemilk and goatfeathers, hens teeth and mares nests. The King
made a discreet signal to his guards (who were permanently stationed behind the
plinth upon which his majestic throne rested).
“Take him to the torture
chamber. And when he is suitably
reminded of to whom he is speaking and whom he serves, find out what he and his
Southern scum have done with our tithe.”
This was duly done, and poor
Garrad died far more quickly than his torturers anticipated, giving them angst in
anticipation of the King’s anger.
“My King,” the head torturer
said. “We have found all we need to know from the slave Garrad.”
“Who?” the King asked nonchalantly,
as if it was of no great concern, though in fact he was more than a little
worried that the camel trains of grain had not arrived as usual.
“The slave from the Southlands.” The
King raised an acknowledging eyebrow. “We have learned that he has traded with
the foreigners from the Great Continent. They have taken your tithe!”
The King frowned (a popular look,
for him). “Does this mean war,
then?” He was not actually asking the
torturer, more asking himself rhetorically.
After a few moments consideration, he said
“Go to the Guard. We will venture
South and take what is rightfully ours!”
The Head Torturer disappeared quickly, eager to fulfil the King’s wishes
and glad that he himself had not been subject to a more thorough inquisition.
The King did not go with the army
to the South. But in time he did hear of the clouds that hung over the southern
lands, and strange stories of animals - and the people themselves - behaving
most unnaturally. Few of the regiment he
sent returned, and those that did brought such stories as to beggar
belief. But he still wanted his corn,
for the lords and dukes of his City needed feeding. Perhaps, he thought, they could drink
goosemilk?
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