5.5 Wicked Games

Location: Fubar
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Spring

I watched through the Eye, the gold-rimmed aperture of my scrying glass rippling like disturbed water. The King’s bedchamber looked like a tomb of velvet and stagnant air, the heavy curtains drawn tight against a world that had moved on without its master. Diked was a pathetic knot of silk and shivering limbs, buried beneath a mountain of ermine-trimmed quilts. I could almost smell the sour musk of his cowardice.

It was a delicious contrast to his visitor – Monnik. The consort stood over her king, the very picture of the serpent in the garden. Her hair was a river of midnight, blacker than the shadows she wove, falling in heavy, silken coils over shoulders that had once been the price of a silver coin in the gutters of Fubar. You’ll recall that Ramssee had plucked her from a common brothel years ago, but unlike the unfortunate fate suffered by most of the Steward’s dalliances, he’d recognized a shared hunger and a lethal lack of conscience in Monnik. As a result, the girl not only survived under Ramssee’s thumb, but thrived in a kind of secret partnership with him. It didn’t hurt that she possessed the kind of breathtaking, sculpted beauty that could make a King forget his lineage and a priest forget his vows—full, painted lips that held a permanent pouty curve and alluring eyes that bespoke of delights few could imagine. She had spent a lifetime learning to wield those charms, peeling away the defenses of men much harder to crack than poor Diked – stood over him now like a spider contemplating a particularly succulent fly.

“I told you, don’t get too close, Monnik!” Diked’s voice was a thin, reedy ghost of its former arrogance. He peered over the edge of a gold-threaded bolster, his eyes darting toward the door. “How did you get in? The guards… I gave orders. No one enters. No one!”

Monnik didn’t move. She allowed a shadow of staged pity to soften her features. “Diked, love… there were no guards at your door. The hallway is as silent as a crypt.”

The King’s breath hitched, a wet, hitching sound in the gloom. “No guards? But Alec promised… they must be against me. Or the rot has taken them. Oh, the air is thick with it, Monnik! I can feel it itching behind my eyes!”

He didn’t move to flee, of course. Fear had turned his blood to lead. He simply burrowed deeper into his sanctuary of blankets, as if goose down could ward off a divine blight.

“I’m here to help, Diked,” she whispered, her voice a silk ribbon winding around his throat.

“I don’t need your kind of help right now! I need walls! I need distance!” He snapped, though his eyes betrayed him, latching onto her with a drowning man’s fervor. “What… what could you possibly do for me now?”

“I am here to warn you,” she said, her tone dropping into a grave register. “They are coming for you today. Within the candlemark.”

Diked disappeared entirely beneath the covers, a trembling mound of fabric. “Who? The mobs? Have they breached the inner ward?”

“Worse, my love. The people are screaming for ‘The Doomed King’ at the gates, yes. The soldiers are weary of holding the line for a man who hides while they breathe in the spores of the dying. But it isn’t the peasants you should fear most.” She paused, letting the silence of the room amplify the imaginary threat. “I overheard them, Diked. I saw the shadow of a betrayal that would turn the sun cold.”

I chuckled low in my throat, the Bone Dagger vibrating against my palm. The girl was good. She played upon Diked’s insecurity like a bard.

“Promise me,” Monnik urged, leaning down until her shadow engulfed his bed. “Promise you won’t tell Ramssee I came to you. He would have my tongue for this.”

“I won’t let him! I’m the King!” Diked’s muffled bravado was tragic. He threw the covers back, his face a map of pale creases and frantic sweat. “Tell me! Who has turned?”

“Your guards. Your ‘loyal’ General.” She leaned in closer, her breath stirring the fine hairs on his neck. “I heard Alec pledge his sword to the Steward. He told Ramssee that Fubar needed a stronger man upon the thr–“

“A lie!” Diked shrieked, his fingers clawing at the sheets. “Alec is a rock! He would never!”

“Is he? Look at the empty hallway, Diked. Where is your rock now? He is coming for you, but not to protect you. He will tell you the plague has reached the palace. He will tell you he is taking you to a secret refuge. But the moment you step past the threshold of this palace, he will hand you to the mob. A sacrifice to buy the army’s peace.”

Diked’s mind, already frayed by isolation and the ambient magic I had bled into the city, snapped under the weight of the suggestion. He scrambled out of the bed, his nightshirt twisting around his knees. He began grabbing at anything within reach—a silver chalice, a handful of silk tunics—shoveling them into a traveling satchel as he sniveled.

“We must go! You and I, Monnik! I have gold in the southern vaults. I can show you the world beyond this forsaken land!”

“One thing at a time, love,” she murmured, her eyes dancing with suppressed amusement. “First, you must survive the hour. Alec will be here soon. He will try to coax you out. If you leave this room, you are walking to your execution.”

The King collapsed to the floor amidst his scattered finery, his spirit broken. He looked up at her, a ruined man. “I won’t go. I’ll bolt the door. I’ll stay until the world burns out.”

<RAP!> <RAP!>

The sound of knuckles on the heavy oak door was like a mallet striking a gong. Diked let out a strangled yelp, his body recoiling as if struck.

“He’s here!” the King hissed, his eyes wide with a feral, mindless terror. He scrambled, hands and knees hitting the floor as he dived under the massive mahogany bedframe, disappearing into the dust and shadows. “Send them away! Don’t let him take me, Monnik!”

“My lord! My King!” The voice that boomed through the portal was thick with the gravel of a dozen campaigns. It was Alec. The General stood in the corridor, his shadow stretching long and solitary under the flickering torchlight. “It is I, Alec. I have come alone and in secret, just as your messenger requested. The horses are ready, Sire. I am here to save you!”

A short time ago, those words would have been a celestial choir to Diked. Now, filtered through the poison Monnik had poured into his ear, they sounded like the sharpening of an executioner’s axe.

<RAP!> <RAP!> The door shuddered under Alec’s gauntlet. “Sire, are you in there? Speak to me!”

“I never sent for him!” Diked hissed, his fingernails digging into Monnik’s silk-clad thigh as he huddled in the gloom. “He thinks I’ve lost my wits! Tell him I’m gone, Monnik. Tell him the room is empty!”

“He would smell the lie on my breath, love,” she whispered, her eyes tracking the movement of the door handle. “Talk to him. But stay behind the wood. Tell him you are ill—that the fever has already touched you.”

“Why?” Diked whimpered. “If he means to drag me to the mobs, what does he care if I am sick?”

“Because even a traitor fears the rot,” she coached, her voice dropping to a jagged, terrifying needle-point. “If he thinks you are a carrier, he won’t dare lay a hand on you.”

“I’m… I’m coming, Alec!” Diked called out, his voice cracking with genuine infirmity. “Just… give me a moment.”

As he reached for the latch, Monnik seized his arm. Her face was a mask of sudden, frantic horror. “DeDe, wait! Look at him through the crack. What if he has it? What if the General is already a husk in the making?”

Diked froze. “How? He’s a soldier… he’s careful.”

“He is a fool for the people!” she spat. “What if he went into the slums to play the hero? What if he touched the weeping and now blames you for his death? He’s not here to rescue you, Diked. He’s here to breathe his last into your lungs. A final, dying revenge!”

Every nerve in Diked’s body caught fire. He approached the door with the ginger gait of a man walking on broken glass. He threw the heavy iron bolt but kept the safety chain taut—a thin line of steel between him and his only hope.

Alec stood there, his face etched with exhaustion, his armor dull with road dust. At the sight of the King, the big man’s shoulders slumped with relief. “My lord. I came the moment your page found me. I have a route to Ontrato. We leave now, and by dawn, we begin winning back your crown!”

“I never sent a mess—” Diked began, his confusion momentarily overriding his fear.

“It’s a trap!” Monnik’s breath was a cold mist against his ear. She remained pressed into the deep shadows of the doorframe, a phantom presence Alec couldn’t see. “Don’t listen. See how he lures you out?”

“Why should I leave?” Diked barked, his voice rising into a hysterical register. “I am safe here! Ramssee promised… he is risking his life to run the kingdom while I recover!”

“The Steward is a viper, Sire!” Alec’s voice rose in desperate appeal. “He is winning over the captains with gold and silver lies! I am the only shield you have left, but I cannot hold the line forever. Let me in! We must pack your essentials and go before the sun sets!”

Alec stepped forward, reaching for the door.

“Look at his face!” Monnik hissed, her finger pointing at the General’s weathered skin. “The mark! See the darkness on his cheek!”

Diked’s eyes bulged. In the flickering, uncertain light, a deep bruise or a smear of soot on Alec’s upper right cheek looked like the first necrotic bloom of the plague.

“You have it!” Diked shrieked, his face contorting into a mask of pure madness. “You have the Red Weeping! You want to take me to the gates so I can rot with you!”

“Sire, that is madness!” Alec recoiled, horrified. To him, it looked as though the King was arguing with the very air behind him, eyes darting to a void in the shadows. “My lord, listen to me! I am clean! I am your servant! Open this door before it is too late!”

“Don’t let the leper in!” Monnik screamed from the dark.

“Go away! Leave me to die in peace!” Diked howled, throwing his weight against the door. The heavy oak slammed shut, the bolt clicking home like a final heartbeat.

Outside, the corridor erupted. Alec hammered on the wood, his voice raw with grief and urgency, but he was suddenly cut off by a chorus of new voices—sharp, authoritative, and cold. An argument flared—the clatter of steel, the grunts of a struggle, and the heavy thud of a body hitting stone. Diked didn’t watch. He had collapsed into a shivering heap, crawling across the floor to cling to Monnik’s ankles like a frightened dog.

The sounds of the skirmish eventually faded into a heavy, suffocating silence. And then, a new sound: the slow, deliberate turning of a key that shouldn’t have been in the lock.

<Knock> <Knock> the gentle tapping wasn’t necessary since the lock as already opened.

“I’m coming in, if you please,” a familiar voice announced. It was smooth, honeyed with a layer of iron—the voice of a man who had already won.

Monnik’s lips curled into a triumphant crescent. She didn’t look at the shivering wreck of a King at her feet; she looked at the door as if it were the curtain rising on her finest performance. “DeDe, it’s going to be all right,” she said, her voice dripping with a false, saccharine relief.

“But… that’s Ramssee!” Diked blubbered, his fingers catching in the hem of her skirts.

“I know. It is,” she replied, patting his head as one might a dying hound. “Trust me. Open the door, but keep the latch secure. Let us see if the Steward has come to save his King.”

Diked moved like a marionette with tangled strings. He rose, his legs shaking so violently they rattled the floorboards, and cracked the door. The security chain went taut with a metallic snap.

The hallway was a tableau of violence and victory. Ramssee stood center-stage, flanked by five armored guards. Between them, General Alec was forced to his knees. The old soldier’s face was a map of fresh bruises, his lip split and bleeding, his arms pinned behind him by three men who looked everywhere but at the General’s eyes.

“Sire,” Ramssee began, his tone a masterpiece of feigned concern. “I was walking these halls with my personal guard when we discovered this… this traitor accosting your chambers. We moved at once to defend your person.”

“See?” Monnik whispered into Diked’s ear, her breath cold. “I told you we could turn this. But don’t trust him, love. Let him take the General away, but stay in your sanctuary. The hall is still filled with the breath of the dying.”

“Thank you, Ramssee,” Diked croaked, his eyes fixed on Alec.

“What shall we do with this criminal?” the Viperz asked. He played the part for the benefit of the guards, knowing that by nightfall, the story of the “Traitor General” would be the only truth allowed within the palace walls.

For a heartbeat, silence reclaimed the corridor. Diked looked into Alec’s eyes. The General didn’t struggle; he simply watched his King with a profound, quiet grief. In that moment, a spark of the old Diked flickered to life. His heart hammered against his ribs. If I let them take him, I am alone with the snakes.

He opened his mouth to command Alec’s release, his hand reaching for the chain.

“The splotch, DeDe,” Monnik’s voice was a needle to his brain. “Look at his cheek. The black bloom. He’s trying to bring the rot into your bed.”

Diked’s eyes snapped to Alec’s face. There it was—the dark, irregular patch on the right cheek, obscured by a smear of blood. To the King’s plague-mad mind, it wasn’t a bruise; it was a death warrant.

“Ach! No! NO!” Diked wailed, his resolve shattering like glass. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

“Certainly, Sire,” Ramssee replied, leaning in. “But Alec? What is his fate?”

“Take him away!” Diked screamed, his voice hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Don’t let him touch me! To the pits with him!”

The King slammed the door. The sound of the bolt sliding home was the final nail in the coffin of the Orkney dynasty.

Ramssee stood in the hallway, the slam of the door an insult he wore like a badge of honor. He thought of Monnik behind that door and allowed himself a brief, predatory smile. My, my, Monnik. You are a jewel of a conniver.

He turned back to the captive. He stepped toward Alec, his amber eyes tracing the General’s features with a hungry, lethal intensity. He wanted to feel the man’s throat crush beneath his boot, but he stayed his hand. He noticed the dark patch on Alec’s cheek—the same one that had sent Diked into a fit. Ramssee recoiled instinctively, his breath catching.

“You there,” Ramssee barked at a guard, his voice trembling with a sudden, sharp anxiety. “Wipe his face. Clean the filth from him. We are not savages; let the traitor go to his cell with a clear visage.”

The guard pulled a kerchief from his surcoat and dabbed at Alec’s cheek. The General remained motionless, his dignity a silent roar in the narrow hall. With a few brisk strokes, the dark patch vanished—nothing more than a smudge of soot and dried gore.

Ramssee let out a long, silent breath. Just dirt. “You heard your King,” the Steward declared, his voice regaining its oily pomp. “Take this traitor to the deepest dungeons. Chain him to the cold stone until he rots.”

Alec offered no resistance. As the chains were cinched tight around his wrists, his gaze remained fixed on the floor. The betrayal of his King had wounded him deeper than any blade ever could. He was led away, the rhythmic clank of his shackles echoing through the silent palace like a funeral dirge.

---

The Visit

Later that same night, Ramssee was unable to sleep. After Alec had been removed from power, he and Monnik had celebrated with a nice dinner and an especially fine bottle of wine. Then they had taken a walk through the palace gardens, enjoying the beautiful weather and springtime blooms. After that, they retreated to the company of each other’s arms in their private chambers.

All in all, the Steward could not have asked for a much better day – for he was totally oblivious to the horrors of the terrible plague that were still evident in the lands which surrounded the city walls of Fubar. Yet for whatever reason, he was still unable to find the calmness that was required for enjoying a good sleep, therefore, after laying in bed beside Monnik for a couple hours, finally he carefully removed himself from her arms, got up, put on his robe, and then exited his bed chambers. 

Without thinking, he made his way to The King’s Den. Once inside, he picked up a bottle of liquor and poured himself a double shot. Then he took a seat. It was only after he had taken his first sip and then sat back in his armchair that Ramssee realized his skin felt too tight; his blood hummed with an erratic frequency. Why is my heart racing? he wondered, pressing a hand to his chest. I have won. The board is clear.

That’s when I decided it was time to remind him that the board belongs to me.

I stepped out of the void, manifesting as Shedu Mazai—the Master of Skulls. I let the air curdle, the shadows drinking the light until the room was a tomb. Ramssee’s glass shattered on the floor, the liquor pooling like a transparent wound.

“Your time is up, child,” I rasped, standing before him in robes of woven midnight, my skeletal arms crossed behind my back in a pose of terrifying casualness. I felt his pulse spike, a frantic, rhythmic thrum of terror

“Did you think I would forget?” I whispered. Then, I let my voice become a psychic roar that physically launched the Viperz backward over his chair. “DO YOU THINK I AM A FOOL?”

Ramssee scrambled on the floor, his fine robes soaking up the spilled spirits. Before he could draw breath to beg, I loomed over him, a towering monolith of his doom.

“Attend to me, swine! Where is my prize? You promised it to me two years ago. Look at my hands, Ramssee. Do they clutch the cold iron of the Grim? No. They are empty.” I swiped a hand through the air, and the wind of it felt like a winter grave. “You are lucky I am currently in a state of restraint, for if I held that blade, I would carve your insolence from your ribs.”

I began to pace a slow, predatory circle around the cowering Steward. “You chose this? This fly-blown, decaying excuse for a kingdom? You chose a life of silk and dust over the eternal glory of your God? But you seem to have forgotten – you are tethered to my thumb, little snake. I can pull the string and draw you back to the pits with a flick of my finger. WHY HAVE YOU NOT BROUGHT ME THE GRIM?”

“K-K-Kaoz…” he managed to squeak, his mind turning to a frantic slurry.

“Kaoz?” I tilted my skull-face, a sinister smile stretching over teeth that had never known flesh. “The same gambit again? I am a God of results, not excuses. I have given you more than enough time to secure my prize. Where. Is. It?”

I stepped closer, my robes brushing against his boots. He tried to shift his form—to become the viper, to slide away—but I had muted his connection to the magic I’d birthed him with.

“One more time,” I hissed, reaching for the fastenings of my robes as if to reveal the True Form that would dissolve his soul. “Tell me you have the Grim, or prepare for the opening of the Gate.”

Panic, sharp and electric, sparked a final, desperate impulse in him.

“But Master! I DO have the Grim!”

I froze. The silence that followed was absolute. For a moment, even I was curious. Had the worm actually found it and kept it from me?

In that heartbeat of hesitation, Ramssee surged to his feet. He ran to the far bookcase, his fingers frantic as he wrenched a wall sconce downward. A section of the wall groaned open, revealing a dark, dust-choked alcove.

“What is this?” I raged, playing the part of the confused deity. “What games are these?”

He didn’t answer. He dived into the shadows of the secret room, his hands raking through a chest filled with Akkanian relics. His fingers closed around cold, heavy iron.

“Attend to me!” I bellowed, rounding the corner of the alcove. “Don’t make me come in there, or your end will be a song of screams!”

In desperation, Ramssee came upon a small blade – a Drokka dagger! Its black burnished iron had been broken near the tip, making it appear more stubby than it once was – yet its pommel still held the diamonds encrusted from its making and even the original ruby embedded in the end. As I neared him, the viperz turned around thrust a blade upward to ward me off.

Seeing the menacing flash of a black blade in the hands of a traitor like Ramssee there in the dusky air of that little chamber, took me by surprise. It never occurred to me that the weapon which Ramssee had held up was anything but The Grim – for as a god who knew only evil and treachery myself, I’d expected nothing less from my minions. Seeing my viperz holding up a weapon which I knew could steal my cursed soul my mind instantly realized that this must have all been some kind of trap! I surmised that Ramssee had kept The Grim hidden in there – for who knew how long – and that it was my pawn who had tried to lure me inside that tiny closet so that he could strike at me with the god-killing blade!

“Noooooo!” I screamed. “Stay away from me with that power!”

I recoiled, my bones rattling with a sudden, violent tremor. I stumbled back into the Den, my robes fluttering. Ramssee stayed on his knees, staring at the broken dagger. I saw the shift in him—the cold, calculated courage of a man who thinks he has found a leash for his master.

“Master?” Ramssee said, his voice dropping into a sinister purr. He stepped out of the alcove, shielding the blade.

“Stay back!” I barked, wrapping my robes tighter. “I command you—do not approach!”

I obey your desires, my lord.” Ramssee said, appearing the part of the loyal servant. “Yet, I do not understand. Are you not happy that I have your prize?”

“Do not play the fool on me, swine!” I spat. “How long have you had my precious, and why have you not returned to give it to me?”

Ramssee began a magnificent lie, spinning a tale of miners and plague-cleared paths. He was projecting every ounce of his remaining Power into the deception – and to my great shame I bought his every word.

“So,” the Steward finally whispered, his eyes flashing a predatory grin as he neared me. “Do you want your prize now, Master?”

I backed away further. “GET AWAY! Keep your distance! I have had enough of your insolence!” And then recovering my dignity as a god I raged, “No more games. If you value your soul, you will bring that blade to the Cauldron by autumn. Do not come a day later.”

“I shall leave on the morrow,” Ramssee lied smoothly.

“I will have an escort waiting,” I snarled, my form beginning to dissipate into a swirl of black smoke. “You will place the dagger in a lead-lined box. And Ramssee… if this is another plot, I will make the plague seem like a summer cold compared to what I do to you. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.”

In a flash of cold light, I withdrew my presence.

I watched him from the void as he stood alone in the Den – he began to laugh—a low, hysterical sound. He might have gotten the better of me on this occasion, but I vowed to make him pay when once I got him back in my Life Labs. Oh, yes, then I would flay his very soul!