The Strength of the King

Kings are supposed to be weak.

Marcus Cairn knew this to be a fact. He should have. Once commander of the armies of Dannisfire, he now was expected to become king of the realm. A position he never desired, or sought, but was now his alone.

He sat on a throne that had been grown just the day before. Dannisfire did not have any mages or sorcerers, but there had always been a strong community of druids in the woods north of the castle. And as he had been crowned recently, the druids had wanted to put on their own showing for their new king. A demonstration of their power, their allegiance, and perhaps a warning should he neglect their ways.

Marcus looked at the throne. Made out of a springy ash wood, and lined in moss, the damp was already beginning to seep into his pants. He wondered if the gift was supposed to be an insult.

There was a loud crash, and his eyes turned back to the game.

The druids of Basterwick forest had a rather unusual demonstration. A chess game, of sorts. The pieces danced across the board, a cunning, living set of interlocking roots from the surrounding trees.

The pieces themselves were animals, their wills held in check by the two archdruids who played the game. Pawns were squirrels of red and black, the knights a set of hawks. Bishops were foxes, the castles a family of badgers. And for kings and queens there were two wolves and bears.

For an hour, the druids had mercilessly slammed the woodland creatures against each other. The old men had little tact for the game, but their powers of control were immense. Squirrels tore apart hawks that they should have run from. The badgers rushed up and down the board, seeking their prey. And the wolves eyed each other, the queens ready to feast upon the unwary.

A third druid approached the king. A woman, dressed in a robe stained purple. She bowed her head. “My king,” she said. “How do you find our masters’ game?”

The king sighed, and shrugged. How was he supposed to feel? What did they want him to feel? Already the mangled corpses of a third of the pieces were scattered to one side. Their blood and viscera had stained some of the spaces on the board beyond recognition. Marcus could look to the side, and see glassy eyes peer back at him.

Was this supposed to awe the new majesty? Make him tremble at the druids’ power? For if they could command the beasts of the field and forest to take arms against each other, could they not do the same against humanity?

Marcus stood up. The druids halted immediately, their hands disappearing into the folds of their robes. The beasts huddled on their spaces, eyes wide in terror or bloodlust.

“Your majesty,” one druid player began. “Is our game not to your liking?”

Marcus walked down to the board. He stood next to the black king. A bear, with fur almost as dark as his own hair. The beast could tower over everyone in the clearing, and tear them apart with ease.

Or he would, if he weren’t fast asleep. The druid in charge of the black pieces had not seen fit to move his king, and the poor animal had started to snore in the midst of the melee.

A sleeping bear. A king who did nothing. Other pieces were expected to work, while this one slept. The king in chess was always meant to be useless, and vital. Unable to do anything himself. But lose the king, and the kingdom would fall.

“Your majesty?” the druid in black asked.

“Set these beasts free,” Marcus muttered. “They’ve suffered enough.”

The druids nodded, and waved their hands. The squirrels were allowed to leave first, scattering off into the trees. The two hawks left took to the sky, sated for now. The badgers and foxes slinked back to their dens, while the wolves padded towards the lone woman druid to lay beside her.

The white bear, a grizzly, lumbered off. The black bear blinked his eyes open, and looked down at the small king.

“Get up,” Marcus said.

The bear snarled, and got to his paws.

The black druid blanched. “My king, let me handle…”

“Don’t do a thing, ye hear?” Marcus snarled. He glared up at the brute. The black bear was twice his size, three times his weight.

It stood up, and barked a challenge. The bear could see the man challenging him, and would not abide it. Not in his forest.

But this wasn’t his forest. Basterwick lay solidly within Dannisfire’s borders. All that the bear saw, all he could roam, was at the acquiescence of Marcus Cain, king of Dannisfire.

And he’d be damned if he’d let others fight every single one of his battles.

“I don’t like bloodsports,” Marcus growled. “They served a purpose amongst the knights. Toughened them up, and weeded out the unworthy.”

The bear started forward. Before he could blink, the king leapt forward. The bear raised his arms, but it was far too late. The king had drawn an axe, and chopped down. His strength and the keen axe bit through fur, hide, muscle and bone, shearing the swiping arm before the bear could blink. As the bear realized he’d been disfigured, the king had spun, and chopped straight through the neck. The bear flopped to the ground, dead.

The druids stood, mouths agape. They had expected to prove their worth, and their might to the king. They had known the stories, that he had been a great commander. But to take on a bear with naught but an axe. Was that even possible? Was he even human?

Marcus walked away from the chessboard, and into his woods. Weakness. They all saw potential for weakness.

He’d show them what a king could do.

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