"I would never betray my master, because I serve only Evil. If it seems that I switch sides to whichever dark lord is ascendant… yes, I do. And if they are smart, they'll know that's just how things work."
— Gnarl
"One, two, three, four-"
From within the half-deserted halls of the luxurious citadel, the sound of counting could be heard. But this was not part of some great magical working, nor was it a grand musical performance. No, within the confines of her new lavishly appointed confinement, the dark necromancer of the Steel Maiden was doing push-ups at the crack of dawn.
"- five, six, seven, eight-"
This was her fault. She'd gotten out of practice staying with Louise. Princess Henrietta had taken up the practice of working out the last time she had been imprisoned, copying the young knight-trainees she had seen from the window. Lacking the space they used for running around the palace grounds, she had not been able to take up the endurance training they had, but everything else could be imitated. It took up time when you were a captive princess locked in a tower room, and time was one thing you had a surplus of.
In theory in such a situation you were meant to take up needlework and embroidery, but when she had been her mother's prisoner they had taken away Henrietta's needles after they had caught her trying to make an improvised wand from thread-wrapped metal and a lock of her own hair. Also, she had no real patience for delicate stitching. Her nurses had said that princesses were meant to be good at it, but Henrietta had found she was too clumsy with the fine detail to be anything more than amateurish.
"-nine, ten, eleven, twelve-"
And there was something very satisfying about honing your body into something that could crush a guard's windpipe or quite firmly inform an overly-handsy rescuer that even light petting would result in a broken hand. Her mother apparently hadn't had any problem with that, because her main rescuer had been Louise's mother. Her virtue had been quite safe in Karina's capable and dexterous hands, her mother had assured frequently and stridently - which had been a peculiar reassurance because of course it was given Karina had been another woman and it wasn't like Henrietta had even asked anything about that. Well, it might have worked out for her mother, but Henrietta had been firm in her intention to be clear that while she would like to be rescued, her hand in marriage was not part of the offer. And anyone who demanded her hand would encounter her fist.
Louise-Francoise would come for her. Henrietta trusted her friend. In fact, she thought ruefully, as she began another set of sit-ups, she owed poor Louise-Francoise an apology. How could she have been so ignorant as to have missed it? And Louise-Francoise had tried to tell her it and she hadn't listened. If she had listened to her best friend, everything would be different.
"I'm sorry for not believing you when you told me that Port's Mouth was a trap," she whispered.
But more than that, she had to find things to do. If she had nothing to do, the black depression would claim her again, driving out all the colour from the world and leaving it a desperate and wan thing. She had failed her love. She had failed her revenge. She was a prisoner and he was back in the misty underworld - and she had been so close! Close enough to hold the hand of the corpse he was possessing. Close enough to see his spectral face rise from the shoulders, close even enough to reach out and let her fingers brush through his spectral form. And the thought that she would never see him again in the world of the living was always lurking. Waiting to drag her down.
So she would wait for her friend. Or perhaps not wait. Because her friend was much better at this kind of thing than her, and the longer that Louise-Francoise had to waste on rescuing her, the less time she would be spending bringing death, destruction, darkness, despair, and other things beginning with 'd-' to the Albionese who had murdered Henrietta's beloved. So it really behoved her to help Louise-Francoise as much as possible by breaking out beforehand. And causing as much damage as she could on the way out.
It would require careful thought, long contemplation, and preparation.
The first escape attempt began at just after eight in the morning the same day, when the deaf-mute maid bringing the breakfast of the mysterious noble prisoner was promptly choked out by the genteel princess, tied up with bedclothes, and her clothing stolen.
The princess was promptly caught because she was not aware that her assigned maid was a deaf-mute, and returned to her cell.
The second escape attempt was more of a lunchtime thing. There were three big strong manly men defending the understandably wary maid. Unfortunately, the flower of Tristain had been left with access to items such as chairs, curtains, and embroidery needles, and thus their presence did not notably impede her. However, the earth mage waiting in the hall outside did. Shackled in stone chains, she was returned to her cell.
The third, mid-afternoon escape attempt ran into immediate problems when the replacement maid was revealed to be a sophisticated golem with doll-like painted features and unblinking gem eyes.
"You can try to break my neck all you like," the maid said placidly, swivelling its head around to face the princess. "You lack the strength to meaningfully impede this unit." It waited a few moments, while Henrietta attempted to stress-test this hypothesis. "Are you done, flesh-sack?" it inquired, once things were starting to become awkward.
"I am a princess, automaton," Henrietta grunted, trying to work the golem's neck-joint against itself.
"Apologies. Your royal highness flesh-sack."
"You are far too intelligent for a golem."
"You are stupid to keep on trying to break my neck when it has been proven not to work." It paused. "Your royal highness flesh-sack."
Giving up, Henrietta climbed down off the construct's back, and adjusted her garments. "So you were a product of the Gallian workshops."
"How did you know that?" The golem seemed to realise what it had blurted out. "I mean, why would you think that."
"Everyone knows the Gallians are the best golem-makers, and their academies are the most unethical and morally bankrupt of the great schools of Halkeginia." Also, Henrietta added silently, it spoke Tristainian with a mild Gallian accent.
"Ha! You are correct, you foolish flesh-sack - your highness - but not for the reasons you think." It paused. "Or maybe you are entirely wrong and I am merely misleading you," it hastily added.
Henrietta shook her head. "I am impressed. Send my compliments to your designer. It takes brilliance to make a golem with your particular form of stupidity. It is very nearly human."
A weary chuckle came from the door. "I will be sure to pass your compliments to its crafter. But I suppose a necromancer such as yourself, your highness, fully appreciates the art of the animation and control of unliving matter."
Henrietta turned, and met the eyes of the newcomer. He made no attempts to hide his identity from her, and that choice told her that he expected she would not be in a position to give away anything. Though the fact that he knew that she was a necromancer already gave her a clue as to how he thought he could control her. "Your majesty," she told the blue-haired, pale king of Gallia. She clenched her hands behind her back, trying to control her revulsion. "What an unusual place to be meeting you."
"I might say the same to you." There was no trace of the strong Gallian accent he had displayed last time they had met in more formal circumstances. "You are a naughty little girl, aren't you?"
"And you are a wicked overlord."
He languidly raised his long fingered-hand to his mouth in faux-shock. "Is it so obvious?"
"I felt you rend my magic apart and banish my army of the Dead," Henrietta said. Oh, her prince, cast back to the Underworld by this man. She hated him so! The clinging, cloying, invasive feel of his magic was something she would never forget.
And from his smile he knew it. "Ah, that most intimate of familiarities, no?"
"And what would you be doing here, your majesty, in this warren of Republicans?"
"Ah, dearest royal cousin, that would be telling, would it not? Though how could one even know that one is in a warren - charming term for these seagull-eaters, by the way - of Albionese rats? After all, one would believe that you don't even know where you are."
"I am on the Isle of Wights," Henrietta said. "Just south of Port's Mouth, and the traditional burial ground of the Albionese kings." And where they had interred her love. Of course she knew this place.
King Joseph's face fell. "Goodness me, well, that ruins it all, doesn't it?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Young lady, you have no sense of drama. No sense of presence or mystique. Here I am, trying to be playful - even coquettish - with the wicked and corrupt princess of Tristain who has fully embraced dark magic and what do I get? Nothing but an anticlimax."
"You did ask," Henrietta said.
"Yes, but you weren't meant to get it so quickly! Ruining my fun! Completely letting me down! I wanted to tease it out, tossing a few clues here and there, and then you go and guess it ahead of time." King Joseph crossed his arms, pouting like a small child. "You truly are a disgraceful young woman. Yes, this is the Isle of Wights. A place stacked high with the bodies of dead royals." He smiled. "Did they whisper to you through your death-honed senses?" he asked eagerly.
"I recognised the view out the window."
King Joseph jabbed his finger at her. "Disgusting! Disgusting! You have quite exhausted my patience with you! Stop trying to escape, and stop ruining my fun! Good day to you, your highness! Good day!" And with that said he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
"Fleshy beings," the golem-maid said, with a mechanical click as its eyes swivelled up in an attempted roll. "So foolish and dramatic." It twisted its neck around to Henrietta, who had laid her hands on a chair. "Do not attempt to damage me that way. We will not replace furniture you break that way."
Henrietta did it anyway.
In the council chambers of the Commonwealth of Albion, messages from the fleets carried on the winds were being assembled on the enchanted map. Uniformed earth-mages pushed enchanted figurines over the surface, while runners dashed to and fro, carrying the latest updates. Standing around the edges of the room were the hulking steam-golems of the New Model Army, a mark of Albion's strength that kept them safe even before
"First Fleet reports defeat of breakout attempted by dragoons at Amstelredamme," came the word, and a brief cheer filled the space before the men and women got back to work.
"Quite the splendid sight," Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell said, looking down at the great display on the table. "Jolly good, jolly good."
A uniformed major stepped up. "My lord! We are honoured by your presence. Do you have any new orders?"
He shifted slightly, with a genial smile. "Oh no, chaps, I trust in you. Don't want to stray from the plan. Listen to your major-generals and admirals, don't want to meddle with the chain of command and all that."
"Of course, my lord!"
The invasion was proceeding well. Amstelredamme was holding out on the coast, and the air defences were too strong around Bruxelles to make a landing there, but everything was as close to planned as he could have hoped. The New Model Army was both a hammer and an anvil at the same time, and where it landed it was routing the Tristainians wherever they met them. And-
"Third Fleet reports losses near Lake Ragdorian! Unexpected ground-to-air ice magic - wind messages say it shredded even the metal hulls!"
That brought a sudden hush to the war room. "Ice magic?" asked a commodore. "Can you verify? Does someone have a list of all Tristainian battle-mages who could do that?" He looked directly at the Lord Protector. "My lord! Should we focus on this target, or stick with the plan?"
"Well… uh, um, I'd say that this is an affront to the honour of Albion. And those treacherous Tristainians are trying to stand in the way of Albigone - and we can't know who else they're working with. So," he cast his eyes over the map, "surely some of those people can be moved to hunt down those dangerous threats, right? Crush them before they can build up any new forces. Shouldn't just have the men standing around doing nothing, after all."
"As you order, my lord! Shift the reserves to Lake Ragdorian!"
"I'll leave you to it," Cromwell said, making his exit from the war room and mopping his fingers with his handkerchief. Crikey! A dangerous mage getting in the way like that couldn't be good. Best to crush them soon because throwing tidbits would only risk them taking out his people piecemeal. And well, all things considered, that chap in Gallia wasn't the most trustworthy of sorts. A trifle strange, really. Not all there in the head, but you know what they said about Gallians. He was useful - and more than useful, what with the funding at first and now access to the golems. But best put this war to rest quickly, before he started getting any funny ideas. At least he was distracted with handling that trap he'd set up for the wretched traitors who'd gone after Port's Mouth, so Cromwell could focus on what was really important.
Albigone had to work. He'd staked his entire career on it. And as long as the Albionese could cast off the mainland oppressors and get that rum chap in Romalia off his back and get plenty rich off Tristain, he'd stay on top.
Cromwell realised that in his thoughts he hadn't been taking enough care, because he had almost stumbled into his high chancellor, Henry Marten. Not a trustworthy chap, Marten. Altogether too much at home with figures and numbers. Studied natural philosophy at Grantebrycge, and an Oxnaford graduate such as himself couldn't be altogether comfortable with someone like that. And he knew Marten had his own ambitions. Wasn't a faithful friend of Albigone, oh no. Wanted the title of Lord Chancellor himself, just because he'd been more involved in the earlier stages of the rebellion.
"Marten."
"Oliver. Fine weather it is."
"Oh yes, well, jolly good. I really must be going, so…"
The High Chancellor cleared his throat. "But how goes the requisitioning in Tristain?" he enquired, his tone a fretting one. "Our support in Parliament is tennous. The credit extended to us on our vows to reduce the burden of taxation on the land-holders of society is not unlimited, and if the requisitioning is not going as planned, problems will arise. So tell me, in the name of God, if I must begin rallying support to get a new taxation bill through."
Cromwell waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, old chap. Things are all going as planned. We're winning the war down there, donchaknow, and a victory overseas will always help with the common folk. Why, that's what my own ancestor found when that wretched man turned on him because he was too popular!"
"It is not the common folk I am concerned about! Oliver, you ride a mountain cat with the way you… induce the agitators among the poor! But you have to remember who in God's truth we act for, and it is not the unwashed masses. We would have lost the war if it were not for the fact that the foolish king had raised taxes without Parliamentary consent, and I tell you this - it will not be any different for us. Zounds, it will be worse, for now the thought is in the air that Parliament can gainsay those who would order it, and-"
"-and we have the New Model Army. Marten, old boy, you forget yourself. Albigone cannot fail. It can only be failed. And I will not fail the mighty steed that has borne me to this mighty station. This stallion, this charger demands his oats - and who am I to say no to his insistent neighing?"
Chancellor Marten blinked. "In God's name, what are you talking about?"
"Go back to your bean-counting, Henry," Cromwell said, running a hand through his messy blond hair. "It'll all work itself out. It always does."
Princess Henrietta was not sure whether she was glad or not that King Joseph would not leave her alone. For all his pouting and his flouncing, something in him seemed to want her attention and appreciation. Perhaps it was simply that he had put so much work into these dastardly traps and kept so many secrets that he wanted to gloat at someone.
The first time he took her out for a walk was through the castle itself, but the next time he took her out into the grounds, which overlooked the traditional mausoleums of the Albionese royalty. Unfortunately, he seemed unwilling to have free use of her hands, probably out of some fear she would have tried to kill him. It was a real problem, because she couldn't throttle him or brain him with a rock when her hands were bound. But she was willing to accede and delay her revenge for his banishing of her prince. He wanted to talk, and he might let slip something she could pass to Louise. And of course, he could maybe lower his guard.
With a fond smile, Henrietta thought of what she could do even with bound hands if she could get her hands on a wand. It was a good thought.
"Please stop imagining murdering me," King Joseph said dryly.
"I am thinking no such thing!"
"Of course you are; you only smile when you think about killing people. You are a born necromancer, and — ah ha! — in truth it makes me wonder if there were more amusing proclivities to our cousins in Tristain that were covered up and my spies could not discover. Probably not your parents, though - ah, they were so boring. But your uncle…" He trailed off, leaving the air filled with a significant and meaningful pause.
"Which uncle would you be talking about?" Henrietta asked. She didn't follow where this was going.
"Oh, my dear, that innocent act does you no favours. Your maternal uncle, of course."
"My… mother is an only child." She paused. "Or is there a bastard of my grandfather's I was not aware of?"
King Joseph chuckled. "Oh, this is wonderful! Wonderful!" He spread his arms out over the fog-shrouded landscape, taking in the chalky hills of the Isle of Wights. "My dear, my dear, did it not seem peculiar to you that your mother was an only child? That the question of the succession did not lead your grandfather to attempt to sire another - or take another wife?"
Was she meant to believe that there was a branch of her family she didn't know about? Well, when she put it like that, it was entirely believable. "So I have — 'had', probably…"
"Oui."
"... some kind of sordid family secret?"
"Oh, far more than just one!" the king of Gallia asked rhetorically. "But, mmm. What do you think killed him?"
"Karina de la Valliere," Henrietta replied instantly.
"Ah ha! No! That was a trick question, because while that is the obvious assumption for the death of a wicked individual who lived in Tristain in the past forty years or so, in this case it happens to be incorrect." Joseph giggled to himself. "Guess again!"
Henrietta looked out over the mist-choked gardens, forcing down the urge to punch him in the face. "I presume that if I guess that it was the Duke de la Valliere or a von Zerbst, you would laugh at me again?"
"You would be correct!" he said happily.
King Joseph was a tricky, suspicious man who thought in all kinds of circuitous ways and liked laughing at her when she was wrong. "Suicide?" she tried.
"Ah ha, you nasty little girl, thinking I am trying to trick you like that," he said, smiling even wider. "And you would be correct! But that is, if you will, only the direct cause of action. For the reason he took his own life was something you will not get. Tell me, your highness, how much do you know about elven interventions in the political matters of our fair and beautiful," he rolled his eyes, "nations?"
She paused by a low wall, resting her hands on it. "Less, I think, than you are about to tell me," she said carefully.
He hopped up onto the wall, balancing with his arms held out like a small child. "Well, maybe I won't tell you if you're going to be like that!" he said petulantly.
"Well, I know nearly nothing on that topic," Henrietta said. "Rumours of children taken by the elves, allegations of horse theft - elves do not act with good human sense, so who can predict them?"
"And that is what they want us to think!" King Joseph beamed. "Elves are better than us in every way! They are longer-lived, their magic is more potent, their ploys subtle and far-reaching. If it were not for the rot and laziness that has afflicted them in their comfort, my ploys would have been stopped long ago! Why, the Lord smiles on his Firstborn far more than us!"
"Heresy," Henrietta whispered.
"Oh yes! Definitely! Certainly! Because the Church fears the truth! Just like the elves fear me! And they fear that half-breed I captured with you - and they fear your mistress!"
"Because they are heirs to the darkest evil that has ever walked this world?"
"Yes! And because we are also heirs to Brimir the Founder!" King Joseph declared.
Henrietta's stomach churned and cold fear clenched her. "Impossible."
"Oh, come now, my little cousin." King Joseph hopped down from the wall with an extravagant bow. "You don't actually believe that."
Louise-Francoise. An heir of Brimir. Shy, retiring Louise-Francoise as a child, grown to a woman who wielded power with ease that Henrietta sometimes envied. Who seemed born to command, and was simply better at leading the forces of darkness than Henrietta could have been. Louise-Francoise, a de la Valliere — and everyone knew that ducal line was born of a man who had been in both senses of the word a right royal bastard.
He laughed when he saw her expression. "Just as I thought. Yes, the elves have been trying to extinguish the line of Brimir. They send their metal birds and their rangers to take us alive, to keep us alive in their gaols as long as possible!"
"Then how did you escape them?" Henrietta asked, eyes narrowing. And for that matter, how had Louise escaped them too? And Tiffania, who was half-elvish and had her own elvish underlings? What if one of them was a spy?
"Not through my deed," King Joseph admitted. "But I have my suspicions. The word is that the elves have over the past few decades become staid; their republican system of government barely functional; their institutions calcified; their body politic hopelessly divided. The tales from loose-tongued elves are that they are so consumed by their internal political concerns and their elites are so unwilling to pay taxes that they cannot even direct their deadly warriors to hunt down the heirs of Brimir. The heirs of the cursed power he wielded; that power which eats away at me, at my life and my mind."
Henrietta said nothing as the pair of them walked
"Well, the Lord has given me my chance! Perhaps he smiles on my wicked ways! Or perhaps he has gotten bored with his endless life! He has cursed the elves with idleness, the pope is callow and young, and Tristain is pathetic." He chuckled. "Yes, I wish I could claim credit for the ineptitude of your birthright, but no, that was all them."
He was trying to get a rise out of her. Well, it would not work, she vowed. For one, she was in full agreement about how unsuited her mother was a ruler - and having met her father's shade, he had been a disappointment.
"Nothing? Not even a splutter? How dull." He shook his head, his pale skin almost blending into the mists. They had wandered among the rows of royal mausoleums, and Henrietta could feel the coldness of death all around her. "But perhaps I have drawn enough entertainment from these matters. And I should tell you the role you will be playing in this."
"I am your hostage, your majesty," she said, folding her hands in front of her. Not that she had a choice.
"No, you are not. You are my - ah, what do your uncouth traders in Amstelredamme call it? Ah yes. That is it." He raised a finger. "You are my insurance policy."
"I… must say I do not follow," she said, slowly.
"Ah, perhaps it is the architecture that is distracting you?" King Joseph said, his smile manic. "So many dead kings here. And dead queens and dead princes, all laid out in serried rows. Neatly sorted. All men die - and most of these men did not die well. They are forgotten. Here in these misty rows, they are all the same."
"They mean nothing to me," she said softly.
"Oh, at least one does. Prince Cearl, they still put his headless corpse in one of these. They did not want him to return and haunt them. Oh, those witless Albionese."
"That is… something," she said slowly. Desperately. Needily. For she had thought they had tossed him in a pit to moulder in Londinium. She had thought she would never be able to hold any of him in her arms again. To find his body would make her whole once more.
And of course, she needed part of his body for the necromantic rituals she most wanted to perform.
"Such a rude girl," he said mockingly. "To treat your own father's kin this way."
"I do not care that my father was a prince of Albion."
"I do! Lord, know that I do!" King Joseph snapped, suddenly in her face. His spittle sprayed against her. "It is what makes you so valuable to me, princess. So do not dismiss your value!"
Her heart raced, her breath hitched, and she gripped her dress with her bound hands. "I… do not follow."
"Ah, you do go on." The anger was gone, but she could see now how that was just an act of calm. He was still breathing too deeply, and his pupils were too small. "Come on! You acted so clever before! Took so much pleasure in trying to keep up with me. You, your highness, are my insurance policy. Your mother was the queen of Tristain; your father a prince of Albion. You are a depraved woman whose wicked deeds deny the dead their deserved rest! Both the Heart and the Left Hand will consider you a worthy heir. So when the Steel Maiden comes to fight me for the Heart of God, why, I will have you chained nearby. When I claim the Heart, you will be there to catch it if it escapes me again. And when I kill the Steel Maiden and claim the Left Hand for myself, you will be there to catch it." He reached out and patted her on the cheek. "You will even get to live if those other heirs of Brimir acknowledge my rightful claim. But if they do not, well," he dragged his fingernail across her throat, "well, I get to try again! Isn't it marvellous?"
Henrietta found herself facing an unexpected emotion. She had long considered death something worthwhile if it would let her see her prince again, but a death which was not preceded by King Joseph's passing was suddenly undesirable. "You would so casually murder a princess in your custody?" she asked, trying to sound scornful and icy rather than irked.
"Oh, my dear, my dear," he said, wagging his finger at her. "Do you really think you would be the first royal I'd killed?"
Henrietta gasped. "So those rumours about your brother's death…"
"Oh, those are true." Joseph smiled broadly, pupils like pin pricks. "But that wasn't who I was talking about. Did you know it's traditional for an executioner to wear a black hood?" He paused to let it sink in. "It was very uncomfortable and scratchy."
The hiss from Henrietta's lips was something inhuman. "You…"
"It is traditional in Albion for the words 'Behold the head of a traitor!' to be said," Joseph said, as if recounting a hilarious anecdote. "I didn't say it, of course! Zhey would have recognized mon accent," he added, deliberately exaggerating the Gallian way of speaking.
"You!"
"Me, Henrietta, yes, me! It was me who held the axe! It was me who brought it down, ending his life! It was me who lifted up his head!" The king threw his arms out like an actor demanding an encore.
"You murdered him!" Henrietta strained against the ropes.
"Executed. I executed him." The king straightened up with a Gallian shrug. "It was not murder under the laws of this land. Not that I care about the laws of an inbred island of fools, but you know what they say; when in Romalia…"
"Why? What did he ever do to you?" Henrietta screamed. Big fat tears ran down her face.
Joseph leaned in, close enough to kiss her. "What he did was bear the power that should have been mine!" he snarled. "And then it went to," he gestured back to the castle, "to the half-elf! Your precious love, princess, he had the Void! I knew the kings of Albion knew where the Heart of God was, trapped and hidden from the elves! I had deduced that past heroes had trapped the last Albionese heir at the borderline of life and death! In the last days of the war, he played into my hand and at New Castle he broke that ancient seal and let the inheritance of the Heart of God pass into him! And I did all of this so he would die by my hand and I could claim that authority which will be mine – and it did not work! I do not know why it did not work."
He laughed, high and manic, and adjusted his cravat. "Ah, but what is a little mistake like that between friends?" he said, breathing deeply. He brushed his hair back. "Quite forgivable, all things considered"
"I am going to kill you!" Henrietta screamed in his face. He had hurt her like this, not because of hate but out of this twisted ambition. And Brimir had been a dark lord and-and-and— "I hate you!"
"Non, non, non." The king giggled into his hand. "That is not something I can allow. I have put quite enough effort into this that you will not be able to do a thing."
"Why tell me this? Why gloat?"
"Because it is funny," King Joseph said, with a one-shouldered shrug. "Such a web I have spun — and no one else can appreciate it." He clapped his hands. "Take her away," he commanded the golems that emerged from the mist. "But throw her in a dungeon this time."
"This castle does not have a dungeon," the nearest golem informed her. "It has been converted to keep goats in during the winter."
"Urgh! Then take away her furniture! And her bed! And anything she could use to harm herself! And chain her to the wall, if you can find a place to mount some chains!" Joseph met her tearful eyes. "Your overlady will come, seeking my inheritance. She will not be able to resist it. None of us can. And she and I will fight - and I will win. Won't it be magnificent, your highness?"
Henrietta spat in his face. It was a very good shot, because she managed to get him in the eye. His hands immediately went to his face, and he made distressed noises as he tried to get the saliva out. "Urgh! Disgusting! Unhygienic!"
"She'll kill you," she hissed.
"Take her away! And someone fetch me warm water and unscented soap!"
From the Isle of Wights the Galian king took a wind dragon to Londinium, and informed the Lord Protector of Albion that he had a meeting with him.
"Oh, jolly good show, what with how the war's going and all," Cromwell said, trying to cover the nerves in his voice as he fiddled with a little model of a cannon positioned by the war table. "I dare say you're happy to hear that the old Tristainian enemy is down and out. We have nearly all their coastline."
"How marvellous," King Joseph said, his voice as dry as bonedust.
"I know, I know. I couldn't have dreamed of more!"
"Is that what you dream of?"
"Well, that and a nicely curvy woman, ha ha." The forced laughter died in the face of the king's silence. "But really, old boy, we couldn't have done this without you. We're forward facing men of the world, not chained to the old ideas."
"The old ideas? Oh no. My dear man," King Joseph murmured to the Lord Protector of Albion. "Don't you feel proud watching this? Seeing the little figurines move across the board? Each one, an army." He reached out. "How would it make you feel to see that happen? To watch a model fall and know that a thousand men are dead?"
Cromwell cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Well, urm, of course, it's all for the greater glory of Albigone. Men like us freeing ourselves from old chains. We're setting a new way of doing things, donchaknow? It's going to bring back our glory days, going to restore our golden age."
"Ah, of course. And because you are my," Joseph savoured the word, "ally, I will sell you the firestones you need and provide my servant Shafeela to empower your 'New Model Army'. But that is the difference between you and me. You see that model fall, and tell yourself a pretty little story about how they died serving your goal of Albigone. I might feel it is ridiculous, but it is the story you need to tell yourself to make it through the day.
"Moi? I knock this model over," his hand brushed over another one, "and I feel nothing. Nothing at all. A thousand men could die in front of me and would no more weep for them than I do for this wooden figure that represents them." He reached out with his hand, wandwood ring polished and gleaming, and tapped one of the model ships. It shattered, the fragments ageing to dust in a moment. "All those ships, all those men, dead in such a horrific way. I feel nothing."
"Your will is strong," Cromwell said. "That's the kind of strength we need, yes!"
"You think this is strength?" King Joseph reached out, and touched the back of that same hand to Cromwell's nose. The man immediately turned cross-eyed, paling at the sudden thought. "It is not strength. It is a miserable state of existence. To be so numb, to feel nothing; it is a curse. A curse of power that is so great it has consumed me from the inside out."
"Such power!"
"You cannot hold such power and remain a person. That half-elf, the Steel Maiden, myself; we are empty vessels, hollow voids in the world. Gaping, screaming, hungry maws. We cannot feel. We cannot love; care; grieve or cheer. I know what I must do. The only way I can sate the hunger in me is to be whole once again. And if I cannot be whole? I will glut the hunger on feeling. I will make a tragedy so great, so horrific that I cannot help but weep. My barren heart will be filled with guilt, with shame, with horror.
"I will be God's monster. He will condemn me for this, or I will devour him too! Is it not wonderful, Oliver?"
The Lord Protector dared not back away, but his face was pale and his legs were wet. "Now, steady on, that's a bit-"
"Insane?" King Joseph smiled widely, genuinely. "I do not think so. And in this, it is my opinion that matters, non? After all, you are not a thousand men. You are just one man. I will not mourn you at all. But you cannot do a thing about this. You cannot stop me. Because your New Model Army was my present to you. And if I die, it will cease to be, for it is my familiar's blessing that animates it." He spread his arms. "Go on, Lord Protector! Safeguard your Albion! Further the goal of Albigone! Take down this king of Gallia! Strike against those foreigners you claim to despise! Stand alone, not relying on foreign allies, taking a brave new step forward!"
The silence hung. Then, "Well, no, I just was saying that it was going to go a bit far, but old chap it's not like I'm your enemy or-"
"Of course you aren't." King Joseph patted him on the head. "Good boy. And now, I will have a message to send to the Steel Maiden. Your people will help me."
"Uh… I don't understand how, your… your majesty," the shaking Cromwell said, words falling over themselves. "I don't exactly know where she's hiding out and-"
"Zut alors, must I explain this to simpletons? I will 'ave your people 'o are patrolling this miserable cesspool of a country carry the invitation to 'er! And then when she murders them, she will find that message! It is not that complicated! Unless, of course," he added, his Gallian accent thickening to a mocking degree, "you wish to tell me 'non'? You big brave 'ero."
Cromwell considered the paths forwards, and his likely fates down either. "No, of course, not, er. Your majesty."
"Wonderful! Just wonderful! Oh, I do hope she will love the invitation to our little tête-à-tête!"
