Tales of Wallanta #8: The Most Miserable Boy in all the Land
Yep we return to Wallanta
It all began with several drunkards complaining. How it could have begun in such a manner, was beyond even Florin’s understanding. In the years since, his father’s death, at the hands of his grandfather, he had learnt not to question, that there was always another coup or rebellion, just around the corner. Quite why, had never once surprised or bewildered him, half as much as his mother due to his having seen, from the beginning what the old man was capable of.
Born in Ivanguard, and raised for the first six years of his life, in the great palace that would always remain his favourite place in the world. Born amidst a stormy night, one that Cosmin IV of Allanta, the lad’s grandfather, loved to remind the boy, every chance he had. The result was that, he had never taken to Allanta, or his distant-natured grandfather.
In Ivanguard, he was free, had often joined his father for hunts since his third season, and had enjoyed joining him for court, or having him about for his combat lessons, writing lessons. Lessons he had enjoyed, offered by the same knights and monks, who also taught him arms, strategy, history, theology, law and literature.
Since his departure, after the murder of Dezidariu III his lessons had continued, mostly under the supervision of Sir Dragos, up until the man’s exile from Allanta. After the death of that clod, Teodor, who had a tendency of annoying Ana so much, which had a tendency of complaining loudly about him, three years prior when he first took to her. Upon the man’s death, she had become quieter, and had since Dragos’s exile visited less often.
Something which was suspected by many, to be linked to her increased intensity for her studies, along with Allanta’s suspicion towards her. Sir Damian oft complaining about her, and claiming that her head was owed to him, for the loss of his son, the old man having become more erratic, more easily displeased since the man’s death. This tempestuous grief, had resulted in the man being dispatched along with the rest of his numerous brood of children, to guard Norfia, one of the border castles of the Voivode. Who had become weary of his company, being a cold-hearted man with no real compassion, he had little patience for the knight’s grief.
Grief that did not trouble Florin overmuch, for he was too busy feeling sorry for himself. The loss of his great mentor Dragos, and loneliness left him full of self-pity. His own cowardice during the earlier incident involving Jaxton’s unjust death, with the enslavement of the Wulfsuns continued to trouble the king.
The incident in question though, which sparked off the wrath of Cosmin took place, shortly after the fourteenth day after the Spring Solstice, on the celebration day of the hero Yallin the Tall. Yallin having been, a great hero from the Wars of Darkness three centuries prior, who had been born a farmer, who after the violation of his wife by the hands of the Dark Elf prince Ethul’ran, rose up alongside hundreds of other farmers. The serf in question, in time coming to create enough of an opening, for the first king of Ivanguard, to be able to press the attack upon the Dark Elves, it is said.
With the hero Yallin struck down, in the fields of Estparavon to the Prince Ethul’ran’s mentor after succeeding after thirty years of fighting, to avenge his deceased wife. His story of heroism, and sacrifices for his people, one that had inspired them to celebrate him every twenty-sixth of Maivon (on the day of his passing), fifth month of the year, and one that involved loud feasts and dancing throughout most villages in the nation. The dancing beginning shortly after dawn, with a great deal of mutton served, as it was said to be the hero’s favourite food, followed by religious psalms celebrating his love for his wife sung, until noon. With the dancing moving across town squares, and with later in the day, after the psalms have been sung, would resort to eating water-melons and spitting out the seedlings. The number of seedlings said, to be the number of months it would take, until the young man or woman, would meet their true love.
The day would come to an end, with someone dressed as the hero, swinging sitting upon a great stone, by the temples, brought in freshly from a local quarry, for just such an occasion. Seated upon the great stone, the man would recount tales and songs from the time of Yallin, celebrating the great hero. Only for the stone to in the end, to be after the festival fashioned into a statue of the king, by a local artisan hired expressly for this purpose. With this year’s statue in Allanta, not being of the king, but rather the Voivode himself, a break with tradition that had irritated, certain people in the city of Allanta.
Drinking themselves stupid, the incident was hardly of note, except in that a few drunks had gathered amongst themselves, to complain about the inflation in taxation. Most had been pushed off their lands, with one of the trio (the only one who still had land), having had to bear witness to the savage beating of his wife by a handful of knights. The aforementioned incident had left the woman, barely able to walk, with two missing teeth and bedridden, whilst her husband struggled for the next week, to pay off his ‘debt’.
Miserable, poor and without any families left, or land between them, the two luckless paupers had begun after half a dozen of drinks of grog, supplied by the barkeep, begun to complain. At first it was quiet, and mostly about the individual knights who had beaten, their friend, the wife of Beniamen bloody. Then, it had progressed until they were loudly, complaining about taxation, over how though serfs, they should still have rights and in regards to how life had gotten worst since Cosmin seized power.
“Ever since, he killed the king what have we been, left with?” Questioned Ciprian the burliest and hairiest of the trio, dressed in a torn white grog-stained tunic, with his brown wool hose equally torn and grog-stained. His thick brown beard and hair greying, as he sat there, his once plump belly reduced pathetically to little more than an inwards curve, the three seated at a small wooden table, near the back of the room, with his grey eyes half-lidded with displeasure.
“Shhhh, be quiet, Ciprian,” Beniamen hissed, even more grey-haired than his friend, thanks to a healthy decade over him, and with blue eyes. The son of a respected farmer also, he had for almost thirty years farmed the land, without a single murmur of displeasure or complaint against, the men in command of Allanta. His own beard was considerably shorter, and better maintained in part due to his not being a complete pauper, with it matching his grey tunic and hose.
“Why? It is not as though, he has done any good for us? What of Sonia? What that scum’s men did, was beyond reproach, was beyond tolerable! If I was that coward Sir Dragos, I would have slit that filthy slug, Cosmin’s belly open!” Ciprian rumbled a little more loudly than before, utterly over-taken by the grog he had downed over the past several hours. Signalling with one hand, to the man seated before him.
“Cripian is right, what he and his men ordered was wrong,” Traian piped up, having only a grey moustache above his upper lip, rather than a full beard with a balding line of hair, dark eyes and three years the junior of the very man he just spoke of. Dressed with a thick woollen dark cloak that was as torn and stained too, with his hose and tunic both fairly dark, due in no small part to his having been in mourning since the loss of his son in the Voivode’s last war.
The three fell silent shortly after this, for a time before they had more to drink, with the barkeep continuing to order that their drinks be refilled. His burning gaze, upon the three unaware men: Who entirely ignorant of his ill-intent continued, to rail against Allanta and his lackeys, their voices growing not only in vehemence, but in loudness, in what could only be considered the crowning folly of their lives.
The trio would not realise until they stepped outside of the tavern, to find two dozen knights gathered around the entrance, laying in wait to pounce upon them. After the initial shock, Traian vomited upon the ground. Whether from shock, or from simply having drunk too much? He disgusted and amused a great many of the knights present, with this one act.
As to the other two they froze, dumb as stones where they knelt before the terrible Voivode who had dominated their home-city for so long. His eyes glowering upon them, with all the fury of a scorned lover, he pronounced with no small amount of heat, shortly after the pub-owner Vil, had stepped up to whisper into his ear. “‘Ever since, he killed the king what have we been, left with,’ was it? What do you lot have to say, to this?”
“Well, uh,” Stuttered Cripian pathetically.
“With uh, respect-” Traian added equally as frozen, as his friend.
“And yet here you lot are,” Cosmin IV taunted darkly, grunting from between his teeth, “Here because of your lies, regarding the death of the king. He fell ill, after our battle and passed on, nominating me regent for my precious grandson.”
The precious grandson of which he spake, sat upon the throne the Voivode towered over the boy with his flaming eyes, whilst the lad sat melancholically with downturned eyes. It was evident, even to men of the lowest possible rungs of society that, king was ruler in name only and lived but for his grandfather’s pleasure.
Where Beniamen and Traian shrank, Ciprian the most manly of the trio knelt a bit straighter. Frightened as he were, the sight of his king, a broken child- he who ought to inspire the greatest hope, the most masculine of sentiment amongst all folks of Wallanta and who filled them with pride, little more than a shattered, cringing infant caused something to shattered within Ciprian’s hard heart. For years, there had been the hope, not only amongst most people in the kingdom, but also the proud, oft-gloating grey-haired man who had lost his beloved wife and children, to a recent plague. The plague having come from the south-east of the kingdom, surging and leaving coughing, black-bile vomiting dying victims in its wake. With entire towns and cities devastated, this combined with the past few famines had served to denigrate, what little optimism left in the realm, after the regicide of Desideriu III.
“We have done no plotting sire, for we would ne’er dream of treason against our noble and fair king.” Ciprian corrected a hint of righteous anger in his voice, as he bit his lower lip, a mixture of desperation and pleading also slipping forth from him.
A sneer on his long face, the Voivode of Allanta refused them any mercy, in a heartbeat. Feeling him to be without mercy, it was all the peasant could do, to keep from throwing himself forward, to strangle the nobleman. It was not as though, he was the one who had done a great harm, such as regicide, as Cosmin IV had. Yet, here he was in the midst of being tried, for a similar crime.
“I will decide that, peasant,” Cosmin snapped in what was supposed to be an austere voice, yet to the pleb’s ears, he sounded more mean-spirited and petty than anything else.
“Please, sire we meant no harm and were merely drunk,” Traian pleaded now, having regained some small measure of his courage.
While the lord-regent stretched the moment out, toying with the fear of the three men kneeling before him, Ciprian looked away from him. Preferring to take the opportunity, since he was unlikely to live long enough to do so again, to set eyes for what was the first time for him, upon his lord and king.
Florian was a young blonde child, of mayhap ten years of age, the grizzled man noted, unimpressed by the boy’s lack of stature, and the anxious manner in which he avoided, his grandfather’s gaze. Seemingly frightened of his own shadow, so that his dark blue eyes seemed perpetually downcast, and his long nose tucked almost against his chest, with his chin.
Dressed splendidly in dark blue, that almost seemed to be mourning black, he wore upon his head a small coronet (he was not yet fully grown enough, to wear the Balaur-Crown. His clothes involved a simple tunic, hose of the same colour and an even darker cloak about his shoulders, one which appeared to Cripian’s eye a little large for the boy.
In all, he appeared as a boy playing at being a man. Or a jester, playing at being a king, which was such a ludicrous notion, that, he could hardly repress a snort. He ought to feel a great sense, of loyalty, and of affection for the boy yet all that he could feel, was a sort of frustration. Why did he not act? It was evident now, more than ever to the peasant that, Cosmin was abusing his position and yet the king merely cowered, as one afraid rather than standing tall as a proper monarch should.
So swept up by his own fury was he that, he felt the seeds of an absurd idea plant itself in him and take root almost at once. He was already doomed; therefore why not go out, in defiance of the usurper?
“Meant no harm? Very well then, kill the coward pleading for his life, Sir Darian.” Ordered the regent, as he leaned his chin, on his clenched fist, his elbow propped up on what appeared to Ciprian’s eyes a throne, a mixture of amusement and derision in his voice.
“What, wait-!”
“Please, milord!” Traian begged also, as Beniamen was disposed of.
Stricken into silence, all Ciprian could do was kneel there and watch, as one of his best friends from the very start of his life, was decapitated. It was so sudden, so horrific it was all he could do, to not leap into the path of the blade himself. As though sensing he would move, the guard behind him gripped his neck from behind, giving a slight squeeze and a loud belch of a laugh.
“Don’t move, worm; your turn will come,” He promised drawing laughs from all around him, as many of the knights joined in, in his revelry.
It was all so terrible that, Ciprian felt a wave of pain overwhelm him, at the thought of Beniamen no longer being able to draw breath, no longer to wake up in the morn’ to greet his friends before they all left to toil in their fields. No longer, to care for the family he loved ever so much; the siblings he had grown up with and said farewell to. When they had left, for the south, for greener pastures to toil on other farms that, belonged to the Voivode, nor was Beniamen likely to see his daughter again.
The question of who, would stay to greet her upon her return, from wherever she had disappeared to, troubled Ciprian all of a sudden. Notably worst than, the thought of never seeing the light of day for himself, as he had no children, no parents and no siblings left alive to speak of. To the contrary, he had no children for they had all miscarried, with his wife Adela having passed recently in childbirth. This had left him rather broken-hearted, as to siblings, his brother Cornel had been conscripted and died in the battle of Balaurkeep. As to his sister, she died when they were kids, therefore he had nothing and no one since his mother had died (his father had died in battle, twenty years prior).
This was likely why, he had become so attached to his friends, for in the past ten years, he had been left with nothing. Having nothing left in one’s life, beyond the hum-drum of daily-life, save the fond memory of one’s family and wife, tended to leave one particularly attached to one’s drinking-companions. Thus, it was with a start that he heard the terrible nobleman, before him pronounce the death-sentence for his other friend.
“Good, now kill the other insolent drunk,” Cosmin ordered callously, with as little care as one might give, a fly fluttering about their person.
Indignant, Ciprian turned to begging also now, “Please majesty, spare at least Traian, he has a bride still waiting for him at home-”
“If such is the case, one can only hope, she will find herself a new husband or join him before long.” Cosmin mocked indifferently, causing his king to glance up and biting his lip, lower his gaze again.
“If you will not spare him, will you at least let us sing one last song, in praise of you milord?” Ciprian requested sweat pouring down his brow, and rolling down his back. This was his last desperate act, one that he hoped may not save his friend, but it might at least enrage the Voivode so much that, he decided to end him first.
“A song? Very well.” The vanity of the nobleman, could not keep him, from wishing to hear one last pleading song before he ended, the lives of those who were but bugs before him.
“Thank you, milord,” the peasant thanked, as he sucked in a great deal of air, as his friend shot him a bewildered look, aware that he was his only hope of survival.
“There once was a donkey,
Proud and fierce as any,
He swore up and down
To every passing lion
Ram and bear, and wolf
That he was as good as any of them,
‘I am as kingly as you lion,
As ferocious and mean,
No less strong,
And can better wear a crown,
Or sit a throne than thee,’
‘I am as strong of will,
And can eat my fill,
And fight as ably
As you o ram,’
‘I am better able to protect
My own, and no less gluttonous,
No less dignified,
And thrice as mighty o bear,’
‘I am strong and loyal
As thee, o wolf,
So squirm and kneel,’
He proclaim’d to all,
‘Ah but there is one thing thou art
That I am not,’ proclaim’d the wolf,
‘What is that?’
‘I am no false pretender, and I am not lunch,’”
As he finished his recitation of the song of the donkey, whom he derided as a false pretender, a false beast and as a weakling carried away by the power of his own music, he risked a glance at his audience.
Aware of the implications, the regent glowered at him, and likely had something terrible in mind. Death awaited Ciprian, he knew and yet what happened next was something that, took him completely by surprise and left not only him stupefied, but all others assembled; the king laughed. Not stopping there, he burst into a riotous laugh that shook his frame, until he almost lost his footing to the alarm of all those present.
A gloomy boy, who had previously appeared as though he had never laughed before, Florian had given the impression that he knew not, how to snicker or even smile. Yet there he stood, giggling as though the song was the most ridiculous thing he had, ever heard in all his life.
It took quite some time, for even Cosmin’s shock to be put behind him, for him to adopt a grimace of irritation and impatience, at the king’s absurd reaction. With many in the hall muttering, to themselves as the nine old monarch giggled as though, he had never before heard a jest. A small smile graced Ciprian’s lips, as he bemusedly remembered that, yes this boy may be king, however he was still but a boy. That boys will always be boys, that they all necessitated laughter and boyish games or competitions else, their spirits became stifled and died. That even this tree, in order to grow into a mighty oak needed, a healthy amount of sunlight and water.
“It was not that funny, o king,” Cosmin growled impatiently, as the monarch continued to snicker at his expense.
“Yes, grandfather or so you think, but for a peasant to sing such a song before you, seemed ridiculous.” Florian remarked with a slight chortle, before he added, “I did not think it about you, but rather a drunk unknowingly, speaking of himself.”
This suggestion seemed to make the Voivode genuinely think, as he considered the possibility, while the farmer stared at him. Could the man, in nominal command of the state truly be so simple, as to believe he was not the one he was referring to? Cosmin was evidently being compared, to his ancestor and all knew it. With Ciprian suddenly wondering, if all that had transpired when he seized the throne, was not a cunning strategist but the actions, of a lucky fool.
It took some time, before the regent grumbling beneath his breath, nodded his head and waving over his cupbearer, took a large gulp of wine, before he declared. “Bah, no matter, the other one must still die.”
“No wait!” Traian begged, but it was in vain.
His head soon decorated the floor also, along with his blood. Mouth agape, Ciprian could not tear his eyes away from the corpse, of his friend. Unable to imagine, a worst crime than this, he did not react for some time, to the knowledge of Traian’s death for some time.
Traian had been a man who loved his wife, more fully than any other man alive, who had dedicated his life to her, dedicated himself to helping his fellow serfs as best he could. Regardless if it meant he spent extra time, some days back broken by a day’s hard-labour, to help those around him. He was the best man, alongside Beniamen he had ever met, with the two having given Ciprian to aspire to. So that he always, wished he could be half the men they were, and had worked harder upon himself, even as he strove to make them laugh more, as they were more serious than he.
Hatred for Cosmin consumed Ciprian then, as he fought the urge to leap up to his feet, and to leap upon the Voivode, with his balled-up fists in order to beat the man to death. It would have been no less than, what the monster deserved. Except, it was outside his power, for by the time he so much as moved to rise, he might be killed.
With the regent regarding him with a gaze full of loathing in that moment, as he moved to likely order his execution also. Not only he, but the rest of those present were also stupefied when the king, spoke out for the first time since his little outburst of laughter, to say, “Oh, grandfather don’t kill this man. After-all, he could make a fine jester and fool!”
The look that the regent shot his grandson, was so full of bewilderment and confusion that, Ciprian might have laughed. Were it not for the fact that, he was every bit as stunned as the older man, who shared a glance with one of his guards, who was also gaping. It seemed that none, had predicted the boy’s proposal.
Smiling in bemusement, the boy then with a twinkle in his eyes, requested once again that the farmer, be made his fool. A favour that the grandfather, mulled over for some time once he had recovered, from his shock and disgust. For his own part, the peasant could do little more than stare incomprehensively, at the child who was near to eleven years of age.
Having no great wish to live, Ciprian inadvertently made the decision for the stubborn old noble, with his following statement: “No, I would much prefer, to go to the realm of paradise, thank you.”
“Such could be arranged, drunkard,” Grumbled the old man before, he glanced towards the king only to slowly nod his head reluctantly. “Very well, sire but he is your responsibility, your problem. One mistake and he will perish.”
Harrumphing, the regent picked himself up from the throne, a foul look to the man, whose life had been salvaged by Florian. The king waited until his grandfather, was gone before he turned to the middle-aged peasant to inform him, “You shan’t leave the castle, now fool.”
His head bowed and body shaking and trembling, as he resisted the urge to leap upon the child who stood before him. Much as he was glad to be alive, a larger part of him felt resentful, infuriated by how the infant had trapped him, in the castle.
He was now a prisoner, with Ciprian grounding out through clenched teeth, his sense of panic overwhelming him so that he could not help but blame, the king. “Not a fool, highness but a prisoner.”
The correction given to him, was one that he never might have otherwise predicted, given how unexpected and peculiar it was. It also remained with him, for the rest of his days, because of how solemn, how grim the king’s words were; “How can I keep you a prisoner, if I am one myself?”
Never would have thought a king could be shown to be lonely like kevin mccalister from home alone. Cool