I'm Still King

     Then, the Blue Bruce plunged into the forest, his robe billowing behind him. He mumbled an incantation and allowed a magical glamour to settle over him, allowing him to blend into the trees and undergrowth. As he strode onward, his foot caught on a gnarled root half-hidden in the dirt, and he cursed under his breath as he waved his staff to obliterate the footprints he had left in his flight, letting dry leaves settle over them, letting the soil hide them away.

     How? he grumbled mentally as he forged forward. A novice wizard, and an upstart peasant who calls himself the son of Sir Reynold? How could they…how were they able to fight their way to the castle, break the curses I laid over the land, and…and…

     He stopped, leaning against a dead tree to catch his breath, his staff topped with a lapis lazuli crescent hanging limp by his side. Then Ramtor straightened up and steeled himself.

     No! I am Ramtor, once the most powerful mage in Meridell Castle, the most trusted advisor to the king…and now, I am king! I am still king! I may not have the castle now, but I will take it back…once I have destroyed my enemies! They have not seen me at my full power, not yet!

     Ramtor stomped a cluster of ferns into the ground as he continued moving.

     * * *

     The face of a Blue Acara flashed in the crystal ball that was mounted onto a claw-footed table. She appeared to be levelling her wand at him from the other side of the crystal, as she spoke a single spell-word. Lingering behind her, sword drawn to fend off a large Bearog, was a White Blumaroo, and Ramtor did a double-take at the sight, nearly missing the moment when the Acara fired a blast of magic, shattering the image of herself and the Blumaroo. A crack appeared, branching like a lightning bolt splitting the sky.

     Then the apparition vanished.

     Ramtor, seated on the throne that was once King Skarl’s, shuddered; whether he shuddered from fury, or frustration, or fear, he did not know. A combination of all three, perhaps?

     “T-That was the last Cursebringer, milord,” an Ice Bori murmured, wringing their claws. They wore robes styled like Ramtor’s, but without the gilded trim. “S-Seven Cursebringers, p-placed all over M-Meridell…all destroyed…”

     “I know that!” Ramtor roared, slamming the base of his staff against the floor. The Lenny and Krawk guards at the door of the throne room twitched but otherwise remained where they were.

     “T-T-They’ll b-be here soon, M-Majesty,” the Bori said, bowing their head and looking away. “W-W-What do we do?”

     “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” Ramtor stood up suddenly, causing the Bori to shrink back. “We’re going to give them a grand hero’s welcome right here. So what if they’ve undone the curses I’ve placed across the land? We still have our army. We still have the wild creatures that roam the forests and plains of Meridell, and the monsters that don’t depend on the Cursebringers.”

     “B-But, then, t-t-they will be able to – aaaah! Mercy, Majesty!”

     The Ice Bori had scrambled aside; in the spot where they had been standing seconds ago was a terrible scorch mark staining the throne room floor.

     “Shut up! Gather our army around and within Meridell Castle! King’s orders!”

     “Y-Y-Y-Yes, Majesty!”

     While the Bori scampered to leave the throne room, tripping all over the hem of their robes, Ramtor heard his two guards talking among themselves.

     “Is it true? That the Blumaroo swordsman travelling through Meridell with a mage…is the son of Sir Reynold?”

     “That’s what everyone’s saying. There’s even a tavern song that goes – ‘”

     “Enough!” Ramtor cried, pointing his staff at them. The Lenny and the Krawk stood straight, gripping their spears tightly. “I don’t care if he really is the son of Reynold! Reynold is dead, and whoever that swordsman is, whether he is Reynold’s son or not…he too will bow to me! I’m still king, and I will always be king!”

     * * *

     Ramtor’s lair was a tower on a steep cliff overlooking a mighty river to the west, guarded fiercely by sentient briars and thorns, ghosts that did his bidding, and of course, monstrous petpets that prowled the area. As he stumbled down the path of jagged stones, the hissing and spitting plants shrank back from him as he dropped his glamour. A large Bearog bared its fangs at him but scampered away when the Bruce threatened it with his staff.

     At the worn double oak doors, Ramtor paused again, his chest heaving as he braced his staff against the ground. The doors were secured by spiky chains culminating in a huge, heavy lock which opened when he tapped it with his staff and closed with a muffled boom once he was safely inside.

     A ghost Meerca floated past him, her red eyes glazed and her arms limp at her side as she bowed in greeting.

     “King Ramtor.”

     Yes, Ramtor thought to himself as he waved the Meerca away. King Ramtor. I’m still king. When I’ve regained my strength and mustered my entire army, I will take the castle back.

     Then he paused and watched the Meerca’s retreating back.

     “Synabelle!”

     “Majesty?” She turned and stared at him.

     “I will be in my workshop at the top floor. Do not let anyone enter my tower.”

     “It shall be done, Majesty.”

     Ramtor stopped at the winding staircase and looked up at the door of his workshop. Then, frowning, he decided to take the steps down into his basement, lighting his way with a bright yellow orb hovering over his staff. By the glow, he noticed other ghosts flitting past him, their heads down, whispering their hasty respects. Normally, he would have punished them for being so negligent with their obeisance, but he set his beak resolutely until he set foot onto dusty stone floor.

     One flick of his staff later, all the torches blazed to life, their flames crackling merrily. Like any other basement, this space was used to store a myriad of items in crates and barrels. But unlike most other basements, it also had several cells like a dungeon, as well as a few Grarrl-shaped skeletons in rotten prison warden uniforms milling about and emitting rattling growls at the sight of their master.

     As with the ghosts, Ramtor paid them no heed and strode toward one cell. Unlike the others, this was not empty, and had one gaunt Blue Skeith dressed in rags, sitting on the bed chained to the wall.

     “What is it you want now, Ramtor?” the Skeith snarled hoarsely.

     The Bruce gripped the bars of the door and peered through them at his prisoner.

     “You will address me as your king, Skarl!”

     “I will not,” Skarl replied. “You aren’t a true king. You deceived me and my court, mounted a coup and stole a crown that was never yours. You took countless lives to build your throne – including lives of heroes greater than you, like Sir Reynold of Trestin.”

     Ramtor hissed. “A peasant knight, who meddled with matters beyond his ken. Why you promoted him to become your top knight escapes me to this day.”

     “And it is said that his legend lives on in his son, who has come for you.”

     Gritting his beak, Ramtor took a step back.

     “Who did you hear it from?” the Bruce cried, slamming his staff against the floor. “Who has been feeding you these…these…”

     “Even your rotten walls have ears, Ramtor,” said Skarl, glaring at him. “See – or rather, hear – for yourself. Your minions who pass through here have no idea that I listen to their idle chatter. They are uneasy. They speak of how you fled Meridell Castle after Sir Reynold’s son and his wizard companion challenged you.”

     “Enough!” Drawing back, Ramtor struck the cell door with his staff. Sparks fountained from the point of impact, and Skarl drew back, but the look in the Skeith’s eyes changed little. “Enough! I came here to tell you that I am still king! I intend to take back my castle, my throne, even if it takes all my power!”

     There was silence, as the last of the sparks dissipated into the air – harmlessly, painlessly.

     “Your castle? Your throne?” Skarl met Ramtor’s gaze. “You stole them all from me. You’re not a king, you’re no better than a common thief. And all thieves must be punished. Yours may have been a long time coming, but it is coming, at last.”

     Breathing hard, his face twisting into an ugly frown, Ramtor turned and stormed back up the staircase, his robes billowing behind him.

     “It doesn’t matter how long you’ve controlled the kingdom, or how you came to take over it,” said the Blue Skeith, his voice echoing throughout the basement as he grasped the bars of his cell and shouted after his former advisor, “I’m still king!”

     Ramtor hurried up the stairs, hitching up his robes at one point, as though something was pursuing him. With his staff, he pushed the door to his basement shut with a loud bang, and placed his back against it.

     He remembered the day when he staged his coup against Skarl. He had gathered enough sympathisers from the noble classes, paid enough rabble, cursed enough creatures in Meridell to serve him. Ramtor had run like this before, run toward the throne room while the knights, including Sir Reynold, had been lured away from the castle. But at that time, he had been running toward his goal, seizing the crown and control of the kingdom. Still, he thought, now he was running to protect what he had worked for.

     Suddenly, a ghost Meerca appeared before him, and he bit back what would have been an undignified yelp.

     “The resistance is at our doorstep, Majesty. Your orders?” said Synabelle, her expression almost bored.

     Straightening up, Ramtor grasped his staff more tightly and breathed in.

     “Crush them,” he answered. “We’ll show them…that I’m still king.”

     The End.