King Macbeth was alone. The castle he had taken in a bloody battle still bore the scars of that siege nearly a decade later, its population not fully replenished. Servants were hard to come by, trying to avoid the employ of a man deemed cursed.
The land around the castle was soggy and gray, claimed to be cursed as well. It had always been like that, however, and in happier days had simply been accepted as such, with the woods just beyond as good for hunting and fishing as anywhere else on Gramarye.
Once, Gruoch had enjoyed going out on such trips, with her first husband, her son, her retainers. Those had been happier days. That had ended when Macbeth, the Freeblade now known as the Red King, had come, murdered her husband and taken everything that had been his, including her.
At first, Gruoch had hoped some authority would see fit to punish the trespass, but none did. King Duncan, the idiot, had in fact made an alliance with the usurper, evidently blind to Macbeth's clear ambitions for further conquest. Otherwise, the land was still dealing with trying to replace High King Uther, and her plight was simply ignored.
Macbeth was cold and harsh, seemingly invincible, but Gruoch knew he was ultimately brittle, prone to fits and bouts of almost frenzied penitence. He was a wicked man who seized all he could in the name of expanding his reputation and power, but not so wicked that he felt no remorse over what he did. It was a combination that was, ultimately, oddly pathetic.
He'd never once taken her to bed, content to shove her in a tower and have her a captive bird, proof of his ownership. She had only scant outlets. Her collection of books, all read a hundred times each, the rare party, and her telescope.
She had a mostly complete hand-drawn star chart lying on her table, with the constellations mapped out. The telescope was her one truly stimulating hobby. She had been using it when she had seen Sir Sagramore.
Sagramore had been the first visitor they had had in a long time, and she had hoped he might be able to listen to her pleas and help her. He had been young, handsome, and virile, and Gruoch had at first thought it would be easy to convince him to help her dispose of her husband, and perhaps give her a life closer to what she had before the coming of the Red King.
To her disappointment, Sir Sagramore was a haunted man, suffering from a hideous rage he seemed desperate to get control of. All he had done was ask for directions further north, to Queen Scathach's realm, and then rush away as quickly as he had come. She'd moped a little after that, though she understood logically such a man did indeed need the help.
But now, months later, another knight had made camp. At least three, in fact, a full questing party. And through her telescope, she had seen the heraldry being flown. A golden key, a wild wolf, and a red dragon. It was the last that she knew. It was the heraldry of the High King of Avalon, who would be here King Arthur, a young man slowly growing in fame.
Of course, she had kept that detail away, only pointing out that hospitality dictated inviting them. If this gave her a chance to get close to the High King, and present her case, that would simply be the will of the God-Emperor.
And she also knew who would be accompanying the young man. The Madman of the Woods, the one known as Lailoken. Perhaps not actually helpful, but such a being tended to cause things to spiral, to go in sudden swerving directions. Just look at how his magics brought about the new High King, splitting the realm once again.
It hardly mattered to Gruoch what the magician's intent was with that. Whether it was an attempt to spread chaos or bring the world to some form of unity. Her immediate situation took precedent. Either Macbeth would die, or she'd reach a point of power where she was effectively free. Either way, King Arthur and his sorcerer companion would be able to help her.
A most wicked thing was approaching, that much she knew instinctively.
********************
Below Lady Macbeth, King Macbeth sat on his stolen throne, as food was set up before him. It was poor fare, as feasts went, but Macbeth no longer had any taste for food. It was sufficient to keep his body functioning, and that was enough.
Banquo walked into the hall. He didn't hide his irritation at the sight of the bland food, but with practice at dealing with his master's moods, didn't mention it. "I invited the knights your wife saw," he said.
"Does the knight have a name?"
"It turns out he is High King Arthur," Banquo sniffed, "an arrogant cub with a magic sword and a first beard. Not even twenty yet, by my measure."
"Yet still dangerous, said to be a master swordsman with a powerful ancient mount," Macbeth said in his cold, hollow voice. "His reputation has been growing." The Red King leaned forward in his seat. "My wife would have known the heraldry, but chose not to mention it."
Banquo didn't flinch. Macbeth knew he had some sympathy for Gruoch. "Perhaps it was hidden from her sight."
"You remember Sir Sagramore as well as I. She is always looking for an out. Did King Arthur seem a madman as well?"
"Stubborn and proud, but not a madman, not possessed with any battle frenzy." Banquo shuffled a bit. "Well, not that I could tell. I didn't pick a fight with him. He has Lady Cei with him, and more dangerously Sir Balin the Savage."
Macbeth looked down at his retainer, straight in the eye. "Anyone else?"
"Lailoken. He created the new High King, and he travels with him."
"So I've invited feral animals and a serpent into my domain," Macbeth whispered, "though perhaps they have a goal they focus on, much as Sir Sagramore did."
"Wouldn't surprise me. King Arthur should be in the south, marshaling his forces and building up his support. If he is here, he is on some kind of grand quest deemed important by him or Lailoken."
Macbeth nodded in agreement. "When will he arrive, do you think?"
"Soon. Kings are ever punctual. My son will be delighted, at least. Young people seem to adore King Arthur, for the most part. More fool them." Banquo's face remained neutral.
Macbeth considered Banquo. It didn't matter if he could read the man, Macbeth knew the future. He knew what awaited Banquo and his son Fleance. He could see his blood stained dagger, out of the corner of his eye. He ignored it, for now. "Prepare the welcome."
With a bow, Banquo rushed to get things ready.
Macbeth didn't leave the throne. King Arthur. What did the future hold when it came to him?
*********************
King Arthur's welcome into King Macbeth's castle was somber and cold, dead-eyed servants bowing to him and his party, the gate parting wide to let them in.
Cei gave them an irritable look as they moved among their belongings, checked over their horses and knights. "Don't like it here, King Arthur," she muttered to Arthur, "not at all."
"I can't reject an offer of hospitality," Arthur muttered back.
"Absurd, really," Balin added. The servants kept far from him, his violent reputation forming something of a shield.
"Perhaps, but such is the nature of being an honorable King," Arthur said simply. He reached out, stopping an exhausted looking groom. "Is your King Macbeth not coming to greet me?"
"He awaits within, your highness," answered the groom, glumly. "He is overseeing dinner."
"Very well. I will go within."
Guinevere emerged from his car, drifting close to him. "This may be a trap," she whispered into his ear, holding close, as would be proper for a King's mistress.
Arthur smiled at her, clearly indicating he was quite aware. Though he was unsure if Macbeth consciously was plotting his end, or if it was the simple consequence of the Red King's blood-soaked reputation.
Nonetheless, King Arthur entered the hold, his companions close behind.
*********************
Dagonet slept, curled tight within the sea-chest. It was the most comfortable chest he had ever slept in, and he'd slept in many chests over his life. His parents had had him sleep in a slightly modified example from when he was ten on. It was during a particularly strange endeavor from the Rogue Trader Lord DeVoll when he had first seen the smiling one, hanging above him on the lid.
King Arthur's gift was practically a bed in and of itself. Dagonet, far more flexible than most men, curled up easily, till he was almost a circle. He had no dreams, the only time he dreamed was when the smiling man wanted to tell him something, or teach him a jest.
There was a jolt, and Dagonet's head struck the side of the chest, not hurting, but catching him by surprise. He snapped his eyes open, and was about to bark an annoyed curse, when he heard harsh voices above. They weren't anyone he knew.
"You sure he won't notice?" hissed one, a young man. "Kings are a violent lot, you know. What if he finds us out and kills us."
"We will go through the chest, take a few expensive things, then place it back before the King leaves. He won't notice, he won't care." This was an older, meaner sounding man.
Dagonet had picked up the planetary language quickly, enough to even parse out this dialect. His chest rocked with the thieves' steps. Dagonet reached down for one of his knives, and considered leaping free and killing them both. It wouldn't be hard. He'd have surprise, even if they were larger and stronger than him, he'd be faster, and his knives were sharp.
The chest wagged back and forth. Dagonet rubbed against the sides, but didn't quite jar or hammer.
"It's heavy," grunted the younger man.
"Good, that means it will have plenty in it."
Dagonet smiled. Just him and his knives in the chest. He decided to not kill the men. This was proving to perhaps be an amusing adventure.
A door opened, and the chest tilted, as the two men began to move down stairs. They moved slowly, with practice.
"King Macbeth will want drink, of course," the older man sniffed. "So we'll set the chest in a quiet corner, and come back for it once we serve it. Take out what we can sell off later, then bring it back to King Arthur's car. Quick and easy.'
With a clunk that jolted Dagonet's bones, they set down the chest. Dagonet grit his teeth, not making a sound.
"You think it is jewels? Gold? Weapons?" The younger man sounded excited.
"Kings only ever carry valuables. We will be set for life, I think!"
Once their footsteps vanished, Dagonet reached, and unlatched the chest from inside. He flung the lid open, and it slammed against the back wall so he had to hold it up with his hand as he climbed out.
He was in a dry, dusty, but well-lit basement. And on every shelf, stacked against every wall were bottles and barrels and kegs.
A slow smile spread across Dagonet's face as he realized where he had been brought. "Why thank you, lowly thieves, for you have given me paradise." He reached out to grab a bottle of wine. Uncorking it with a knife, he drank heavily from it, closing the lid. For their kindness in giving him a dragon's hoard of drink, Dagonet decided he would simply play a prank on them. He closed the lid, and giggling happily, went among the alcohol.
