Usurped

This one is a short story I wrote based on a D&D character I created. . .

As he bent over to get a drink from the cold mountain stream, he couldn’t help but recoil at the sight of his reflection. Only a month previous he would have paused and admired himself. If he closed his eyes, he could picture his short dark hair, and short dark beard, both kept that way to hide the invading hordes of gray attempting to overrun his youthful looks. He could picture his straight regal nose and his straight regal chin. His nose in the middle of his perfectly symmetrical face.

It was a face that closed the deal with the maidens, at least that’s what he told himself. It could also be his wealth or power, but regardless his cousin had tried to take it all from him, and would have his life too if he hadn’t tripped.

He opened his eyes, and recoiled at the strange reflection staring back at him. His hair long, greasy and unruly, his beard thick and bushy, both looked as they might lose their battle with the gray. His perfectly symmetrical face, ruined by an angry scar that ran from above his left eye, through his nose ending to the right of his mouth. It had started to heal, but remained angry, red and scabby. No wonder he couldn’t convince anyone he was indeed the rightful king.

“Dude, what happened to your face?”

He jumped, and nearly fell into the stream.

“Where the holy fuck did you come from?”

A shortish, fatish man with a world class combover stood in front of him with a big grin on his face.

“Oh, just over the way, the better question is where did you come from?”

“It’s a long story, and I do not have the energy or the heart to tell it to a stranger.”

“We’re only strangers, because we’ve just met. If you let me, I can be a friend like you’ve never had.”

“What could a peasant like you have to offer in friendship?”

The strange little man laughed. “I suppose I do look like peasant, but a man without friends shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

Then a puff of smoke appeared at the man’s feet and he was gone as suddenly as he appeared.

Stunned, the man with the scar said to himself, “My cousin must have hit me harder than I thought.”

He went back to the stream for another drink of water and dipped his head underneath to clear his head. While submerged he could have sworn he heard the funny little man saying “Even a King needs friends.”

When he came up for air,  there was no one in sight. So he looked around to get his bearings. He found himself in a clearing.  Below he could see a handful of huts, all with smoke rising from their chimneys. He himself stood on a trail, barely wide enough for two. The trail snaked along the mountain stream as it climbed into the mountains. On the other side of the stream a forrest with just enough trees to call itself a forest, but the tree’s themselves weren’t huge, and weren’t packed together.

He looked up at the sky, though the day had turned just cold enough that when you breathed out you could see your breath, the sun still shone in the sky, though it was rapidly racing to leave the moon in its dust.

Thinking nightfall would be less than two hours away, and that it probably wasn’t a great idea to camp near the stream, the man picked his way across a couple of boulders in the scream and into the sparse forest.

He traveled into the forest for about 15 minutes. He knew he should go further before settling down for the night, but he was tired. He also knew a fire might draw bandits, but he was cold. So less than hour later he sat on the ground warming himself by the modest fire he had built with moss, twigs, and fallen branches.

Night came quickly, with nothing to eat for supper, and nobody to talk to, out of boredom, he decided to go to sleep.

He didn’t dream tonight, which was a treat. Most nights he dreamt of his betrayal. The surprise he felt, when he had tried to hug his cousin and was pushed away and a sword drawn. The pain he felt as he fell backwards and the sword sliced through his face, and the relief it hadn’t sliced through his head as intended. He dreamt of the satisfaction he felt when his cousin’s knee popped as he kicked out with both legs from the ground. He dreamt of the despair he felt when he realized his guards were in on it, and the relief he felt in still being alive after diving out the window behind the throne and into the moat.

He  awoke when he could have sworn he heard the fat little man whispering in his ear, “Dude, if you don’t want your throat slit it might be a good idea to wake up.”

As he shook himself from his slumber, he found a dagger to his throat held there by a man in a black cloak, his features obscure by the darkness.

“The King sends his regards.”

His first thought was “Oh fuck”. His second was, “Damnit, that bastard Harold is going to get away with it.” His third thought, “What the hell is that in my hand?”

He didn’t have time to investigate, so he swung with all his might. The object briefly met with resistance before his assailant’s skull popped, and he went limp. Thankfully the cloak had soaked up most of the blood, brain matter and skull fragments, leaving the man with a scar to still look like a hermit, but at least he didn’t look like a murder hermit.

He rolled his dead assassin off of him and jumped to his feet. He immediately heard the whizz of an arrow as it just missed his ear. He looked up to see another man in a dark cloak drop a crossbow, and pull out a second crossbow. Loaded, aimed, and ready to pierce his heart.

As he mentally started to go through his I’m about to die “Of fucks” again, a brightbeam of light came of nowhere catching the second assasin and throwing him hard against a tree.

Out of the darkness came the shortish, fatish, baldish man from the stream, with a giant grin on his face. He looked over at the man with scar, and said,

“Do me a favor, grab that war hammer lodged in assasin over there, and kill this fuck for me?”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

As they sat around the fire, the man with the scar studied the war hammer that had appeared like a gift from the gods. The hammer itself had a squat dragon shape to the head. The dragon’s head made up the blunt part of the weapon, Its jaws open, the gap that should have been open space, had been replaced with a slightly darker metal. The dragon’s tail acted as a spike, giving the weapon even more lethality. The dragon’s wings attached the hammer to a dark wooden handle, though not ornate, the wood somehow shined like polished obsidian. At the end soft, worn leather circled its way toward the dragon head, making for a nice grip. Though he had not wiped it down, blood could not be found anywhere.

Across from him, sat the funny man he had met at the stream. He warmed his hands by the fire, as he smiled and hummed to himself.

“Stranger, I am not sure how you stumbled upon me twice in one day, but I’m grateful you have.”

“Stranger? We have slain the wicked together, we are no longer strangers. You can call me Gary.”

“Well met Gary, you can call me . . . well I’m not sure what to call me.”

“Did you hit your head when you got that nasty scar?”

“No, I used to go by King Rupert, but since being usurped it doesn’t seem right anymore, I certainly can’t get anyone else to believe I am still King Rupert.”

The balding man scratched his head, “Hmm. It seems to me you are a man that is in need of a new identity. How about if I call you Scarboro?”

“It’s a little on the nose, but I kind of like it.”

“Well then Scarboro, what’s next?”

“You know, I was just going to sling over to the next town and try to find some work or something.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“What I really want is to kill my fucking cousin.”

Gary clapped hands in joy, “Now you’re talking, you know, I can help with that.”

“Having a wizard as powerful as you by my side, might just even the odds.”

“Well I wouldn’t really be by your side. I would be there in spirit only.”

“I’m not sure moral support would do a fuckload of good against the king’s guard.”

“I can lend you some of my power, like that hammer you are admiring in your hand, the power will be there when you need it.”

“So you can teach me to throw a bloke into a tree from 30 feet away?”

“In time, that and much more.”

It was Scarboro’s turn to clap his hands in joy, “I accept your offer.”

“Before you do, I do require one thing in return.”

“Which is?”

“After you show Harold, what retribution looks like, you continue to provide vengeance for those that can’t provide it for themselves.”

“I accept.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Gary had told Scarboro if he stuck to the shadows he’d be damned near impossible to spot. He was certainly putting that to the test now. Not ten feet away stood two guards guarding the king’s chamber. The only light in the castle came from the oil lanterns that were spread out along the coarse stone walls, every 20 feet or so. The effect, a poorly lit hallway with plenty of shadows to hide in.

In the back of his head he thought he could hear Gary’s voice saying “Just kill the guards and be done with it, they deserve justice too.”

He swatted at his ear, like Gary’s voice was nothing but an annoying gnat buzzing in his ear.

While in principle, he agreed with Gary, and wouldn’t lose any sleep over killing a couple of guards, especially given they most likely were in on the coup. He knew the smart and more importantly, rutheless thing to do was to simply sneak into Harold’s room and smash in his skull while he slept.

The question remained how to distract the guards. Luckily for Scarboro Gary had taught him a neat trick where he could hurl a beam of light that hit objects with force.

He focused on one of the oil lanterns about 50 feet away, pushed his left arm forward and whispered the words “push it real good.” A beam of light shot from his hands hitting the lantern square, knocking it off the wall and causing it to burst into flames. The guards looked at each other for a second before turning and sprinting towards the fire.  Even in a castle made of stone, fire tended to scare the shit out of people. 

Scarboro quickly snuck into his cousin’s room, and softly shut the door behind him. Being the Kings bedroom, the room was expansive.  On the walls were several wardrobes, a giant bed complete with the pretentious curtains.  In the middle of the room his cousin sat at a table  looking at a half played game of chess.

Harold looked up from his game and smiled. Scarboro had to admit, the monarchy looked good on him. He kept his hair longer than Scarboro had preferred, but he kept it styled. For facial hair he chose a thin pencil mustache. His clothes were all shades of vibrant purple and were tailored to match his wiry frame.

“Cousin, how nice of you to join us. After my assassins failed, I thought for sure you’d bugger off to wherever has-been kings bugger off to.”

The way he said “us”made Scarboro nervous, and for good reason. He smelled the brute before he could hear him, and rolled to his right just as a giant ax bounced off the stone floor in the place he had just been.

Scarboro, scrambled to his feet only to be hit in the face by the back of the biggest had he had ever seen. The force of the blow, rattled his teeth, and sent him sprawling to the ground. 

Scarboro could taste the copper in his blood and hear Harold laughing. But those distractions were nothing compared to the giant beast of a man looming over him. He was bald, and bearded, and as many scars as he had muscles, which he was not lacking for. 

He also had a toothless grin that screamed whatever the outcome was going to be fun. Of most concern was the massive ax that had just missed ending Scarboro’s life rested above the barbarians head ready to come down again.

With his left hand Gary aimed a beam of light at the behemoth’s crotch.. You could hear him scream and the ax clink behind the man.  A second later he had fallen to his knees, holding his crotch in hopes it would feel better. 

In the very next moment, the dragon war hammer had once again appeared in Scarboro’s hand. He swung, caving the barbarians head in, and splattering blood, bits and bone all over Harold’s bed chambers. 

The rest of the night blurred together in Scarboro’s head. Needless to say Harold died, and not gently. It could have been quick and painless, but vengeance demanded more.