The Lost King
The ancient sun began to rise over the Kavali Mountains, bathing the town of Savoy in a warm, red tint. The air hung damp and the streets were empty. A crooked, thin, black tower overlooked the streets--once a shepherd, only a grave marker now. The buildings were silent, no interest to rise from the dead and join the sun, but they could not rest forever. Savoy would not let them, the tower would not let them, and their king would not have it.
In time, the denizens slowly lumbered out of their homes. They moved stiffly, as though unaccustomed to their bodies and set about their daily duties. Nothing ever felt right in Savoy.
Wagons slowly rolled down the streets, squeaking and filling the air where voices cared not. Shades of greys and browns walked to and fro with heads bowed low and spirits lower. Wrinkled faces and squinting eyes looked ahead and hardly bothered to recognize neighbors. One would wonder if they could. Everything else was a backdrop to each person's internal suffering and nothing would pull them from those depths. Nor could it, for this was a town that was caught just beyond death’s veil, but could not move on. The people all seemed aware and resigned to this fate.
Inside the looming tower, having risen before the sun and having shared the silence with the moons of Iknaron and Hurgasnin, sat a figure on a throne.
A large milk-white throne carved from a living tree that drew every eye towards its majesty. One could be forgiven for missing the figure seated atop; he had become a shadow of his former self and now, it was all the throne could do to not swallow him in its grandiosity. Though it certainly tried.
Here in the emptiness of the darkened hall, with tapestries abandoned to time and dust, and devoid of the bodies that had once given it an allure-it was almost enough to draw one to tears. There were no more tears though, in Savoy all had forgotten how to cry.
The figure on the throne was High King Malik Arc de Leon. He stared through the emptiness of the hall, just as he had done the day before, the day before that, and much longer than any other living being cared to remember. None survived now on Das’il that could remember how it had happened and so they stopped caring, content to shuffling about their days.
Back when people still wondered, they told of how he had simply lost his mind. Before that they proclaimed how he was lost in thought, stumped by a question without answer and that the throne contained the wisdom of everyone who had ever sat in it. How High King Malik swore to use all his energy in solving the question.
The reason for his status was more pathetic than that.
It had been a long day of work, Malik had finished with his council when he sat on his throne and stared into the emptying hall. Everyone could sense his fatigue and they left him alone, assuming time and solitude would lead him to rest and recover for the following day. If one had taken the time to truly look at him, they might have been able to understand what leeched the High King of his strength, but that is irrelevant now…
The rising sun, and his council, found King Malik still on his throne. He hadn’t moved an inch since the day before. He would not blink, he would not stir. Unsure if this had been a nefarious plot, his personal Magus called for her coven to investigate what had happened. They would not find much beyond disappointment, but they knew it started with the throne.
The throne and the king were bound by sapling roots. They dug into his flesh from the throne, tiny white veins grown into silver-silken cape and seafoam blue breastplate. He did not stir when pried and the coven soon found that the roots could not be severed by the mightiest swings or the sharpest of adamantine blades.
The roots would eventually begin to grow thick as branches, over time, burrowing through him and even the Obseverden, with all his druidic might and influence over nature, could not push them back. The throne would grow into the ground and through him, all the while leaving him seemingly undisturbed, in fact he would’ve been thought a statue if the leaves growing through him did not shudder every time he drew faintest breath. A fair and troubled statue: his soft, blue eyes looking beyond any who looked into him, autumn wheat skin garbed in lavish silvers and blues framed by the overbearing white of the throne. His brow perpetually furrowed from his copper and ruby, sunflower-circled crown. It had grown in radiance along with his power and now caressed his head like a lion’s mane. One could hardly see the actual meir who had united the three territories, he had become shrouded in glory.
Hundreds came to visit the unmoving High King from the farthest reaches of the continent. Malik Arc de Leon had traveled far and had many adventures in his youth. Before the burden of adulthood shackled him to the throne. He had often imagined how heavenly and comfortable it must be. How wrong he had been. They came and offered prayers, tears, hopes, and curses. Savoy had never been so crowded in the beginning and it would never achieve the same population again, but this was High King Malik Arc de Leon! He had been a dream that all agreed was worth the effort. Stories were spread of his majesty and hardly anyone could be found that was not aware of a single tale that told of his bravery, his faith, or his nobility. Many found themselves distraught at the sight of their king and could not stay long in his presence. The poets once swore more hearts were broken by the High King and that even the gods cried out for him.
“Will you stir for me father? Little Hamatsu misses you and Xtanil cries for you nightly. Elika’s heart gave out yesterday.”
Meiji Arc de Leon once tugged at his father’s robe, as he had done for four days. His voice broke into a pained whine as he was greeted again by the silence. He swallowed the pain and buried it deep inside where it would eventually drive him to bottle and scooped his sister into their father’s lap. Hamatsu was still young enough to remain ignorant, but she still cried as the figure ignored her. This memory would haunt her half a world away in her later years as she sought to make a name for herself and bury the past. The Dragon Keeper stepped up next and pitifully placed Elika’s collar on the High King’s lap. Elika had been with him since his years in the cradle and by all rights should’ve followed him into the beyond; unfortunately, the loss of her master had been too much to bear.
The High King had commanded such loyalty that others decided to take action. His greatest warriors gathered before him, promised to restore him, and journeyed to the farthest reaches of the world to find a hint of a cure. Those gathered swore on the twenty Divines to undo the High King’s cruel fate. A priest from each God blessed the warriors and a large crowd had gathered to see them off. In the great hall, empty promises and future broken oaths were made.
“My lord, if it was an enemy’s will that has done this, we would know their name and release the secret to your antidote from screaming mouth and bloodied lips. Not even Zugachava or his twelve furies could shield them from our own.”
The large host of men stormed outside of Savoy to a shower of banners and flowers. Many felt that this was where the king’s greatest hope lied and were prepared to await the meirs’ return by keeping watch every sunrise and sunset. In the beginning, stories of their deeds reached the city, but became sparse as they went further and further toward uncharted lands beyond the Steaming Sea. They would keep watching for twenty-three years.
One dark day, years after their departure, a single Dragosi knight limped into town. It wore strange orange chitin armor, a sword that crackled like a storm was sheathed at their side, and they carried a large bundle in their hands. Many believed it to be a haunt, but the High King’s aide recognized the knight from his childhood. The Dragosi’s scales had lost their green shine, turned to dark greys and blacks, many scales had simply fallen from its body. Their face wore an expression of fatigue and tears had long stained the sides of their face. Their head was bowed in eternal shame and their tail had been cut down to a stump while they hobbled on feet that had endured leagues of travel. The aide’s hope was immediately dashed, it took all their power to not cry and he did not bother to ask. The Dragosi limped to the High King’s hall and fell to the ground. The large bundle fell to the floor, banners. A banner of each warrior who had originally set out.
“I have failed them, Arc de Leon. We have failed you and the Gods abandoned us to failure. Such strange lands. We are none the wiser from when we first left and now we are no more.”
The Dragosi groaned and ceased to move. The aide ran to its side. He would’ve told the High King of the famed-knight turned bitter- messenger's tale, but he knew they would fall on deaf ears and so instead he prayed to the Gods. The same ones who had abandoned the noblest warriors and brought them to ruin.
Some years before that incident, when the people were truly at their most desperate, the churches held prayer and the kingdom eventually increased the bounty. Neither did anything for Malik Arc de Leon and after a time many stopped caring, having to turn their attention to their own hardships and accepting that the world had taken another piece of hope from them. That they were cursed to suffer and the few years of respite had been a gift that had been squandered. They prepared for the tumultuous years that would come.
Savoy was not so quick to abandon the meir that had led them to prosperity and peace. They figured that they were lost without him and that their only hope lied in his deliverance. Those citizens eventually succumbed to a similar fate as the lost king.
When his most devoted servants proved unable, his flock losing hope, and his most loyal followers spent, the treasury called upon the darker magics to try and save their High King. They called upon the infamous practitioner of magick, Anaro Ichaval.
“In this bag, I have in my possession a thousand demon princes. Not one would dare touch you without my permission. In my heart, I hold the secrets of three-hundred spirits. They would all rather pass into the unknown than fail me. My eyes have beheld dozens of worlds and their births and their deaths. Nothing escapes my eyes. If evil itself is unable to help you, High King, you must be thrice-damned. Do not fear, I will sacrifice all these and more to help you.”
Anaro Ichaval, Arch-Summoner of the Ivory Tower, began to prepare for the task that lay ahead. He inscribed the strongest protective runes all over his body, more than he had ever used, and encircled the room with silver and aloe to trap the spirits and demons within. The Magus and her coven looked on, some of the last remaining supporters of the High King.
Anaro ignored them, there were more pressing matters at hand. He did not know if this would work, but his grandfather had once served alongside the High King Arc de Leon and he had to try. He anointed the High King in blood vodka and spring water from Sunken Gardens of the maiden Rhiannon. The Arch-Summoner then called on his three most trusted apprentices-his children Nari, Eyli, and Ro. They were tasked with retrieving the inhabitants of the bag should the incantation fail.
They all accepted his request as he knew they would, he had raised them after all. The old meir tried not to cry as he drew blood from each of their thumbs and placed it on the pommel of his dagger. He solemnly stared at the blade in his hand as it melted. Now the only way for his apprentices to join their family in the afterlife was to recapture the thousand demon princes and three-hundred spirits.
To this day they continue on the task, having long abandoned names and all ties to Ichaval.
If only Das’il had not been plagued by troubles, a remedy might have been found, but there was war on the horizon and plague in the fields of Old Killasser. Meiji was crowned King and he was tasked with keeping order. He would fail, just like his son and granddaughter would. The Arc de Leon’s would eventually be driven out by Pirate Lord Loghain and the once grand halls of the keep would be butchered to keep Loghain and his crew drunk enough to burn most of the city down in a fire.
These days, Savoy was a death trap. Travelers avoided the land and town altogether. It was not difficult, the very ground had been warped by the king’s predicament. Acres of grass and a mighty river were reduced to badlands. The only ones that populated the town were those that had been warped as well. They could not die, but they did not live. They merely went about their days as they had done at the height of Savoy. Perhaps fooled into hoping that those days would come again. They would not and so they “lived” under the forsaken tower inhabited by a forsaken king who ruled over long-forsaken lands.
Forsaken, but not forgotten. At least to one. She found herself descending into the town’s center, her horse nervously trotting beside the inhabitants of Savoy. She had come from across the Steaming Sea where a few still remembered the damning of Malik Arc de Leon. A wide-brimmed hat protected her ashen-grey face from the sun and she was garbed in a long, white poncho. The stranger had a blue tattoo of a mandible on her lower jaw. Those who were knowledgeable in the practice of the hunting of the undead and their corrupting influence would know her as a Muertero.
The Muertero and her horse reached the black tower and she dismounted. It was quiet, but she could feel the death rattle all around her. She placed her hat on her mount’s head as she had since they were first bonded.
“Don’t get used to it, looks better on me.”
The horse whinnied softly, she stroked his head once to calm him and he nudged her chest goodbye. Were it not for the tight bun her long curly grey locks would have fallen at her hips. Her face was lined with experience and hardship. Her wrinkles had edges holding the years of journeying she had weathered, but her skin looked unbreakable. Her eyes had been lost to the glory of Iknaron, they hummed a soft milky blue. This was a person who would not be denied their task. The clanking of her boots resounded around the empty hall, booming in her own ears; gifted a small mouth unable of the slightest flourishes, she grit her teeth and pursed her lips as she climbed the steps before her.
No echoes. Even as she ascended and her iron-tipped boots hit each step there was no echo. This place was old. Too old.
Delusions often hold out longer and stronger than hope.
The Muertero finally reached the great hall and stopped to take in the throne. It was large, it was spindly, it made her nervous. She almost felt as she should bow, but scoffed at the idea. She ascended the throne steps and stopped at the final one. Her eyes stared through the High King and he looked beyond her. If she were able to, she would’ve seen him slightly tremble. She felt familiar.
She slowly exhaled, years seemed to pass to the High King and sweat accumulated at his temples and forehead. A few of his nails snapped from the pressure he exerted on the throne’s arms. In the passing of six hundred years, this was the most he had moved and all for a familiar stranger. The Gods are cruel.
The Muertero, taking this as permission to speak pulled slightly at the breastplate under her poncho with her left hand.
“Your story is known to us. I have come to tell you that you’ve wasted your life. Your time has come and the world has worse troubles than a fool’s yearning. We will not have you corrupting the land. If you were a flicker of the man you once were, you’d realize that too.”
She placed a hand behind her back, reaching for a strange device that was hanging from her belt. The Primavera’s had asked her to do all that was necessary to end the terror of Savoy. She had agreed to the task, but hoped it would not come to violence. The weapon hung heavy off her belt. Now she waited.
A few more sounds of snapping, but not from his nails, these were softer and could’ve gone unnoticed, but she heard them and jumped down a few steps. Her nose wrinkled at the smell. She was familiar with it even before she had lost her vision. She imagined it now.
A single red tear forming under the High King’s eye. She quickly blinked and shook her head; she didn’t expect it to be simple, but she had hoped he would’ve realized the uselessness of his endeavor.
She climbed back up and reached out at the meir she had heard so much about, but would never get to truly see. His skin was soft, delicate like marzipan, a large wiry beard grew down to his chest. The hairs crumbled as her hand brushed them. His cheeks were gaunt, sharp like hers. She paused when she got to his eyes, she had heard so many tales about them. She wondered what laughter they could have held. He breathed, or at least the leaves growing through his chest fluttered. She then heard the tear fall down his cheek and pictured a red trail, like a comet, down his cheek.
The Muertero reached for her pistol and pulled out a bullet from another bag tied around her belt. It was gilded and etched with a rune, “life”. She grumbled to herself as she fiddled with loading the bullet to take her mind off of things. The most forefront of things being that she did not want to do this. Her heart felt heavy, but she knew this was just the High King’s attempt at swaying her. She hated him for it, she hated herself for allowing it to work. The pistol was successfully loaded and she snapped it up and aimed at Malik Arc de Leon’s face. She stood in the silence for a while, trying to remember a tune and when she did she began to hum.
Memories. Pain. Happiness. Confusion. Obsession. Lamentation. Anger. Fear. Sorrow.
It all came back to him in an instant. The world was reborn in his eyes and the knowledge of six life-times proved to be too much. His throat began to crack and for a second, the Muertero heard an all-too human sound.
The moment did not last, the throne began to rumble and snap asunder, throwing splinters and spears of wood around him. The Muertero turned and ran back down the stairs, but not before a splinter the size of a bolt impaled her left hand. Covering her head, she dove behind a column before a final snap and the throne and the king exploded, a thin red mist covered the hall. It echoed. She lay on her back and blankly stared at the ceiling until the echoing stopped. She tried clenching and unclenching her fist before feeling her left hand with her right, two of her fingers were severed. Fuck.
“And so it comes to such end. Your fate touches me, but it was of your own doing. I will pray that Arallu and her Infinite Choir honor your passing and all that shit…”
Her voice trailed off. She was tired, but she wasn’t finished. The Muertero picked up the discarded pistol and walked down the blood-misted hall, down the dark steps, and into the light of a dying sun. Savoy was finally at peace as its undying inhabitants now lay strewn about the town, finally accepting the fate that had eluded them six centuries prior. The Muertero and her horse did not look back or hang around as she exited the mass grave, having learned what the king and his people had not as she moved toward another adventure.
