The King's Cage

Two Kings meet to deliberate the dissection of a conquered land.

The sounds of bones cracking and meat being chewed with an open mouth filled the large, ornately decorated, candlelit dining room. The food was inhaled ravenously and helped down by a glass of the finest blue wine. King Erion’s golden cup hit the table with force. The lavish liquid spilled out, wetting the corners of a large map that clung to the tabletop. He clicked his fingers. A cowering manservant rushed over and wiped the corners of his wet lips as he swallowed his last mouthful. Erion leaned back in his chair but was not satisfied with his position. He clicked his fingers once more and shouted. “Left!” Servants appeared from the shadows and rushed to his side. Together they shifted the enormous weight of the obese King but a few inches to the left. His bulking form relaxed as every inch of him now filled the crevices of his carefully designed chair. King Erion played with the last piece of chicken skin on his tongue. He was apprehensive, and food always seemed to calm his nerves. He picked up a bone from his plate and threw it at the cage hanging from the ceiling. It slipped through the bars and hit the side of a dishevelled man dressed in rags. The man’s grey hair covered his face. He hugged his knees and maintained stillness.

King Erion huffed. He righted his golden crown. His prisoner had been his entertainment of late, but he was growing increasingly despondent. This was no fun at all. He swallowed the chicken skin only after having chewed upon every morsel of flavour it had to offer. He held his glass of wine in one hand whilst twirling his long, red hair with the other, a habit he had maintained since childhood. This was a monumental day, one that would be written in the scriptures for generations to come. The gravitas of the coming negotiations weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

He looked down at his regal red robe, large enough to be a carpet, and brushed the crumbs from his chest before returning to his prepared pose. Any moment now. Impatience was one of King Erion’s many flaws, it tortured him, and he tried to implement the breathing exercises the doctor had taught him to prevent him sweating profusely. It never worked. His agitation reached its climax. He snatched his cup, downed the contents and threw it at the hanging cage. It clattered off the bars with a loud clunk, before softly thudding into a bearskin rug to the table’s right. “Say something you old fool! More bones here if you want to nibble at my leftovers!”

The metal cage stopped ringing and silence returned for a moment before the large double doors swung open. A young man, who had gone bald before his time, entered the dining room. A scruffy, dark beard hung from his face, desperate to grow and compensate for his bare skull. He was adorned in a full suit of elaborately decorated armour. This was King Erion’s son, Prince Engleburt. He turned to his left and announced in a squeaky, nasal voice.

“The High King Erion of the Kingdom of Eddelia formally welcomes King Ashfort, of Medonis.” Two men entered the room and paused beside Prince Englebert. The first man looked as near death as one could. His pale skin clung to his skull tightly. His tired eyes sunk into his face and his lips looked drier than a sandal left out in the high summer sun. He wore a silver crown with sapphires that glinted against the candlelight and a long blue robe masked his frailty. He slowly, painstakingly, edged toward the chair at the other end of the long table. Behind him, a man in his later years, also adorned in full armour, with short receding scruffy hair carefully watched King Ashfort’s every step should he need to intervene and catch his fall. This man wore the stoic look of someone who had been itching to be king his entire life. He was King Ashfort’s son, Prince Gerrain. Ashfort licked his sandy lips as he arrived by the chair, staring up at the caged man above the table. He looked down to King Erion and snorted.

“It is custom to meet a King at the foot of your keep King Erion,” Ashfort wheezed, “if leaving your chair is so taxing, you could build a slide… or a crane.”

King Erion feigned a laugh. “Do us all a favour and die already King Ashfort, your face is a thing of nightmares. I was hoping the stairway would sap your energy and finish you off.” King Ashfort’s lips curled into a smile as his son pulled the chair back for him and tucked him under the table.

“At least my ailments are natural, you look like a hamster that never swallows its food.”

“I could smell the rot of your decay before you even arrived.”

“You wear gout as if it were your finest achievement.”

“I’ll make these negotiations quick Ashfort, so you can enjoy your final moments.”

“The only quickness you have ever experienced is the time spent with your whores.”

“Despite the decaying carcass it inhabits, your wit seems as sharp as ever.”

“And you’ve doubled in size.”

King Erion’s face reddened as he endeavoured to discover a worthy comeback. Instead, he clicked his fingers and servants rushed around the table, pouring wine. A large, steaming, oven-roasted goose was placed before him and a bowl of vegetable soup was placed before King Ashfort, who eyed it disdainfully. Prince Englebert took his place by his father’s side as King Erion expertly dissected the goose with his bare hands. He began gorging himself on its flesh.

King Erion spat out bits of food in between words, “I had them cook you a soup since I know you don’t have any teeth.” King Ashfort pursed his lips around his bare, rotting gums whilst King Erion leant back in his chair and smiled, satisfied to have had the last laugh. King Ashfort slid the bowl of soup to one side and glanced up at the cage.

“Is he still alive?”

“Psychically yes, but he stopped making noise after we removed his toenails. He just sits there now, despondent and defeated.” A snapping sound filled the room as King Erion ripped opened the goose’s ribcage.

“You should treat your adversaries with more respect. Your royal hugeness.”

Erion’s beady eyes, swallowed by his face, looked directly at his opposite. His jaw navigated the art of simultaneously eating and speaking with careless ease. “Enough! Let us cease the jousting and get down to the matters at hand. I made it to the capital city and took his keep first, I lost thousands of men doing so. I will keep this city.” Erion swallowed his mouthful.

“So be it. I will keep the farmland to the south, as well as the mining pits in the Cresftel Mountains.” Ashfort’s serious demeanour darkened the room.

“So long as you are willing to trade metals with my merchants.”

“I am.” Ashfort responded through gritted teeth. “I wish to keep the fishing villages on the southern coast.”

Erion slammed his fist on the table. “I was hoping to build my summer palace there. All those peasants will make excellent free labour.”

“If you enslave them then who will feed the city folk.”

“I will cut down the nearby forest of Gruningen and convert it into vast farmland.” Erion threw a bone up at the cage, it slipped through the bars and clocked the man on his forehead. Ashfort clicked his knuckles.

“We can split the southern coastline at the river Exertia” He croaked.

“So be it.” Erion spat. “And what of the city of Quarth, I hear the governor wishes to rebel against us.”

“The city will fall in two weeks. I have agents within conspiring to our cause. Once my army is in position and I give the word, they will open the gates.” Ashfort scratched his temple, flakes of his dried skin garnished the soup.

“You should slaughter the men, take the women and children as slaves. Make an example and remind them that rebellion is out of the question.” Erion emptied his wine in one gulp and held out the cup, a servant rushed to refill it.

“Slavery is forbidden in my Kingdom; we consider it backward.”

“Shame. Sell the slaves to me, or kill them all, whatever you wish.” Erion sat back and opened his mouth wide as another servant rushed over and scraped his teeth clean with a toothpick. With a half open mouth, he continued his speech. “Wictowy newa taysed o good.”

Ashfort’s face retained perfect composure. Years at court had taught him to maintain a neutral expression regardless of the disgust he was feeling within. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “King Erion, what guarantee do we have that while my armies are busy with Quarth, yours won’t be riding into my territory?”

Erion’s smile struggled to lift his cheeks. “You have my word.”

“The word of an oath breaker! Of a glutton!” A broken voice from within the cage found its strength. “Only two years ago, the three of us sat together and made plans for peace. Now my land lies in ruins. You have no guarantee Ashfort.”

“Shut up! Slave!” Erion shoved the servant away and pulled himself to his feet, his eyes fixed firmly on the cage. “You are my pet. You don’t get to speak anymore.”

“What happened to you Erion?” The figure remained perfectly still; his face hidden between his legs. “You were a great man. Your late wife would be disgusted to see what you have become.”

“How dare you speak of her! She has nothing to do with this!” Erion tore a leg from the goose and threw it at the cage, it missed and hurtled through the air, almost hitting Ashfort.

“I loved my sister too, King Erion. I grieve her loss every day.” The figure moved to the bars and candlelight illuminated his bruised face. Dried blood coated his left cheek from a pus seeping wound above his eyebrow. Tufts of his hair had been pulled out and left a patchy mess. His beard was unkept and his eyes screamed of a silence found only after experiencing far too much noise. “She was the glue that kept our kingdoms united. Your actions betray her memory.”

Ashfort let out a deep sigh and stood. “Any woman who cannot produce children, whether she died in childbirth or continued to live, is not worthy of a life above prostitution. She showed her true colours. You should have taken another wife, Erion.”

Erion’s face saturated as his blood surged to meet his skin. His inner torment had awoken, his grief, unleashed. “How dare you, Ashfort. You empty husk of a man. I will gladly send you to hell for that insult myself. Boy, your sword.” Erion held out his hand to his son who watched on, unsure whether to speak or stay his word. “I am your King. Hand me your sword!” Prince Englebert unsheathed his sword and placed the hilt in his father’s hand. Erion waddled around the table, pointing the blade at Ashfort. Prince Gerrain immediately drew his blade and moved to face Erion, but Ashfort’s hand stilled him. He took the sword from his son. Its weight caused him to falter, but he widened his stance and managed to lift it against the cries of his aching bones. Ashfort smiled, his heart raced, he hadn’t felt a thrill like this in years. While he had aged, he knew he was the better soldier.

Erion moved towards him sluggishly, his face racked with emotion. He lumbered closer, his pain controlling his movements. “I cannot allow such an insult to stand Ashfort. Take back your words.” Erion felt he had honoured his late wife by facing the insult. He was ready to sit back down.

“My words are my truth. Should you be unable to tolerate them, that is but an indication of your weak mind.” Ashfort goaded him, delighted to have evoked an emotional response. He knew that if he should slay the King before him, his kingdom would become an empire, and his name would be etched down in history. He saw the riches, he smelled the triumph, he tasted the endless affluence. His withering body reverberated with the potential for an ascent into godhood and he coveted the prospect. Erion sighed, how could he back down before his son? He had to teach him what it meant to be King. He had to teach him that some insults could not go unchallenged.

“So be it.”

Erion charged toward Ashfort as if he were running through treacle. He was an echo of his former self. Any person watching would have felt pity for this brazen display of ego. Ashfort had an eternity to prepare for his attack. He steadied himself, licking his lips. Erion clumsily swung his blade from the left and Ashfort expertly parried the attempt, before twisting the blade and running it through Erion’s broken heart. A flaming pain erupted through Erion’s chest as he realised that he was soon to die. But while his mind was shutting down, his body kept moving, the momentum of his charge carried him forward and he fell onto Ashfort’s frail form. The two men tumbled towards the floor. Erion landed on Ashfort, his immense weight crushing Ashfort’s frail bones to dust. Their crowns fell from their heads and clattered to the ground, rolling against the stone floor before coming to a stop.

Silence filled the space as the two kings expired, locked in an eternal embrace.

Prince Gerrain smiled as he watched his father take his last breath. At long last, it was his turn to rule. He eyed Englebert eagerly, awaiting his course of action. Englebert was emotional, his mind raced, he had never been given the space to think for himself and now the weight of a kingdom bore down upon his soul. Tears escaped from his eyes as he stared at his fallen father. Erion’s spirit had died alongside the late queen, it had just taken a year for his body to catch up.

Gerrain crouched and picked up the silver crown that he had prayed for each night before sleep. It was his, he was fulfilled, he was all powerful. He placed it upon his head and shivered as a tingle of energy glittered down his spine. He was entirely gleeful. He leaned down and collected the golden crown, holding it out to Englebert.

Englebert approached Gerrain, taking the crown and placing it upon his head. He accepted his fate with grace and promised himself, he would not end up like his father. He told himself that he would be a better king and his people would prosper under his watch.

“King Gerrain.” Englebert offered.

“King Engelbert.” Gerrain accepted.

Perhaps they would war one day. But this day, the two men shook hands. They sat in their father’s chairs. King Gerrain helped himself to his father’s soup and King Englebert drank his father’s wine. Beside the corpses of their forebears, they laughed and schemed and promised and gibed.

The only sound that accompanied them was a quiet chuckle, escaping the bounds of the King’s cage.