Curse of Kings

The advice in King Micah’s letter came back to Oland: ‘by nightfall, be gone’.

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N THE HOLDINGS, OLAND GRABBED HIS BAG, AND IN IT HE quickly threw his book, his play, his knife, a tinderbox and a change of clothes. He wrapped up the second plate of food and added that. He read the king’s letter one more time, then put it in his breast pocket. He had hoped it would fill him with belief, or courage, or inspiration, but all he felt was sorrow and uncertainty. He looked down at his tin soldiers. His latest addition, bought from a stall in the market, stood holding an arquebus to his shoulder. Oland had never seen a real arquebus before; he doubted that anyone in Decresian had. He admired this new, magical weapon that fired balls of lead, and meant a soldier could be more than a sword’s swipe away.

Oland took the soldier and put it in his pocket for good luck. He left his room, locked the door and put the key in his bag. He was ready. Villius would be about to leave and The Craven Lodge wouldn’t be far behind him. At that moment, the nine hundred and ninety-nine screaming souls began their wailing, as if reassuring Oland it was the right time to go. He thought of his mother coming back for him, but he shook the thought away.

Then, rising over the screaming souls, Oland heard a tormented, wolf-like howl. He ran to the tiny window and looked down. He could see nothing or no one to explain it. He ran down the spiral staircase and along the hallway to the great hall. A chill overcame him, and he went to button his tunic at the neck. The button was gone. It must have broken off the previous night when Villius had pushed him towards the flame of the candle in the great hall.

As he was about to turn the corner, he heard the voices of Wickham and Viande. He stopped to watch their distorted reflections in a shield that was mounted on the wall. He had placed and polished shields on almost every busy corner of the castle, so he could see – and perhaps avoid – what lay ahead.

“I am telling you, he has gone insane,” said Viande, tapping his chubby fingers against the side of his head. “Those were the howls of a man gone roxley! This place is possessed! And I am telling you he said to me not to let the boy live one more night.”

“What?” said Wickham.

“I’m telling you Villius insisted ‘not one more night’!” said Viande. “I’m not going near him. You saw what he did in that arena! How am I to—”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand this,” said Wickham. There was panic in his voice. “I thought Villius wanted Oland bound in slavery to this castle for life. Why else would he have me invent a ridiculous tale to keep him here: oh, his tragic birth, and how one day his mother would return to claim him…?”

A fierce pain swelled in Oland’s chest. Everything he had believed about his birth was the product of a storyteller’s imagination. All the ideas Oland had ever had about who his parents might be were now worthless: anyone could be his father; anyone could be his mother. They could be living or dead, they could be looking for him, or they could have abandoned him with no further intentions. For six years, he had built hopes on these words, he had built a future on them. And now he could feel something deep in the pit of his stomach replace them: a dull and powerful aching anger.

It was at this moment that Oland knew he would never again spend a night in Castle Derrington. But one day he would return. And on that day the beast he would slay would be a man named Villius Ren.

Wickham had trailed off. Oland could see why. Villius, looking more enraged than Oland thought possible, appeared in front of them, wild-eyed. His hair was flat and damp against his skull, his face greasy and ghostlike.

“Villius,” said Wickham, taking a step back. “Is everything—”

“What are you still doing here?” he roared. “I told you to go, didn’t I? I told you to leave! Is it that whatever I tell people to do, they do the opposite now?”

“Of course not, Villius,” said Wickham. “I was merely waiting to ask you if there were any territories in particular—”

“Everything is destroyed!” said Villius. “Everything is destroyed! Look!” He was holding up something small. “Look!”

Oland couldn’t make it out in the mottled reflection.

“A button?” said Viande.

“You don’t understand!” said Villius. “It’s Oland Born’s button! It was on the floor in my throne room! He was in my throne room! Everything has been destroyed!”

The intruder, thought Oland. He must have ripped it off when he grasped my neck!

“He left it unlocked!” said Villius. “He left it unlocked!” He was utterly crazed.

Oland was puzzled. The throne room door had been locked. He had heard the distinctive rattle behind him as he fled the intruder. But, as was often the case, paranoia had perhaps clouded Villius’ judgement.

Of course, he had not been completely wrong. Oland had been in his throne room. But what could possibly be inside that would cause an intruder so much interest, and Villius Ren so much rage at its disturbance?

Oland’s heart was pounding louder than the screaming souls, louder than the inhuman howls of Villius Ren, louder than his own footsteps as he ran down the hallway, ran through the stables, ran across the grounds and out into the world he did not know, but feared.

He knew that he was as dead as a boy with a still-beating heart could be.

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N THE VILLAGE OF DERRINGTON, THE WET COBBLES OF Merchants’ Alley shone. Smoky clouds coursed overhead, masking and unmasking the moon as they passed. The alley was a bleak and empty place after ten o’clock, bereft of the clamour of trade. Over the cries of the unsettled souls, a cough echoed down the street. Oland stepped out from the shadows as a second cough followed. He moved towards the sound and came upon a man curled in a doorway behind a wall of empty fruit boxes. The damp air was filled with the scent of raspberries. Oland looked down as the man squirmed under a shabby blanket that was so small, it would never fully cover him. At the man’s neck, Oland noticed a sheepskin trim.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Oland. He waited. “Excuse me,” he said again. “Magnus?”

Magnus stirred.

“I… I came to find you,” said Oland. “I’ve heard you saying that The Great Rains were coming.”

“Please,” said Magnus, “leave me be.” He spoke quietly.

Oland began to crouch down. “I just wanted to know—”

“My body can’t take another beating,” said Magnus, shifting closer to the wall.

Oland stood up quickly. “I don’t want to hurt you. Who hurt you?”

Magnus snorted. “The list would be as long as a Decresian night,” he said, “except for the fact that no one can hurt me. Not any more.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “I know that The Great Rains are nigh; it’s a fact. I know they are, and whether people believe me or not is no concern of mine. They can laugh at me, they can beat me in the shadows when no one is looking, but I know.”

Oland lowered his voice. “Did King Micah tell you that?” he said.

Magnus went very still. “No…” He turned slightly and opened one eye to look at Oland. “Ha!” he said. “A spy from The Craven Lodge!”

“I’m not a spy,” said Oland. “And I’m not from The Craven Lodge.”

“I know you live up there with them.” He laughed. “What fool mans my mill now?”

“Pardon me?” said Oland.

“Pardon you?” Again, Magnus snorted. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “For twenty-eight years, I was the king’s miller. Along with my sons, long dead now. And my wife, long dead now. My beautiful Hester Rose.” He paused. “And I no different,” said Magnus. “Long dead now. Dead of heart.”

Oland had no words of reply.

“And my beloved was guardian of the king and queen’s one hundred beautiful acres. Every morning, safe from the winds and the biting rain, she would fill the throne room while all were sleeping. Flowers and plants and all manner of fruits and vegetables from our very own garden in the grounds.” He paused. “And then came the craven…”

“I’m sorry—” said Oland.

“At night I lie here and I watch the blades of my mill go round and round up on that screaming hill and I wonder what fool mans my mill,” said Magnus.

“It was a tragedy what happened to King Micah,” said Oland.

“Not for you it wasn’t,” said Magnus.

Oland knew that his association with The Craven Lodge would forever taint him. The fact that they had imprisoned him did not matter to a man who had lost his family, his livelihood, his home.

“Curse your souls,” spat Magnus. “A thousand times, curse your souls.” He closed his eyes again.