The overripe flesh of a tomato explodes against Gregory's face, I watch him wince in slow motion, the juice burning his eyes. Creeping close to his ear as he clutches his face, I see my reflection in the crown that rests on waves of grey. "You are a king no more." I cackle, but all he hears is "Booooo!" the crowd below swells. "Son of a harlot!" a brave voice yells, and there is no force to stop him.
With pleasure I witness the people of T'ha Veone rip the stalls of the market apart. Those who had farmed and filled these booths all their lives, paid taxes to the wretched man in his stone fortress, now made their stand against his rule. Naked feet carried them to action in the shadow of the walls.
A new levy announced with quarterly taxes had wrung too many families out to dry. With winter fast approaching, many were faced with great uncertainty. "The king won't care if you starve" I whisper in the ears of aggrieved fathers, "as long as your sons are fit to fight." I stir and prod.
Gregory barely has time to react before he is surrounded by cloaked guards, who hold their shields high over his head, catching the bits of refuse that now come down in droves. "Tear it down!" voices chant below his terrace, "Tear it down!" the next thing thrown is not edible.
Intricately carved railings set on smoothly polished marble found themselves changed, the pulp and rot of expired eats painted their entirety. This set the stage for the glorious act two, which approaches with an audible hum. Colliding with the imported marble, it shatters the surface, as shards of wood shoot out from the impact. They launched the church organ, brilliant!
I cannot be sure, but I think he hears me now. My giggle is a sharp trill which he searches for in the chaos, or perhaps it is just the oscillating gaze of a frantic man. One who knows he has shuffled his last deck. As the veil between us weakens, I peer over the side of the railing. Below, rough hands provision themselves, a group of men bring a large log into the square, dropping it at the gate.
"Oi! Get yer arses to work 'fore I knock yer thick skulls together!" Mateo shouts to the Keller boys, who lounge in the mud outside the pub. The eldest responds with glossy eyes brought on by too much drink, "You ain't my Da old man, we's just enjoying the king's ale for 'im!" laughter breaks out among their group, muted in the din of preparation that surrounds them.
Four men pass between Mateo and the youths, the roof of a stall balanced on strong shoulders, as they trudge towards the gate. Ever since the clamor had broken out during the king's speech, the village had been left to its own devices. Guards fled back to the Keep, leaving the ale house open for looting. Buckets of courage were hauled to the front lines periodically, that didn't bother him.
These perfectly fit lads, wasting their livelihoods on a buzz when there was work to do though... That made Mateo properly furious. In three swift steps he closed the gap between them, and squatted down to eye level with the oldest. His scared face is grim as he says, "Yer Da would be ashamed." the hand of a warrior smacks the mug from the boy's hand, the brew soaking the others.
Hargrim nods as he hands his last blade to a deserving hand. The massive muscles of his right arm dwarfed the left, which would have been impressive too in any other comparison. His visage was etched in streaks of soot, thick eyebrows singed close from the heat of his craft. Nodding once more to the empty shop, he departs to its back reaches, now it is time to arm himself.
He has not fought since his youth, yet his bones remember the flow from daily practice. Thick hands laden with callouses pull his belt around him, the sheath of a long blade briefly tapping his leg. Chainmail is pulled down over broad shoulders, covering his scared arms, which bear years of kisses from the hearth. The goliath of T'ha Veone remembers who he is.
Outside he is met by a splendid show of teamwork, those he had just supplied arms to acknowledge his appearance with a tilt of the head. Stall rooves had been hastily hammered into useful protection from the guards above. Hargrim stepped under their umbrella, held up by the might of the village. "I reckon that's our lot" Mateos says, with the Keller boys in his wake.
Every free set of hands wraps around the log that faces the gate of the Keep, as a collective deep breath is shared. "Three! Two! One! Goooooooo!" Hargrim screams, as the first blow of the ram shakes the gates. They slide backwards in the muck, gathering for the next push.
The guards unscathed by the shrapnel of the organ urge the king down narrow hallways. I follow slowly behind them, inhaling the pheromones of a changing tide. The force that smacks the gate echoes through the keep, encouraging nervous glances between the soldiers.
They come to a fork, Gregory turning to head left, towards his hidden escape route. The clang of metal fills the cramped space, as sentries decide they'd prefer a bargaining chip to crown loyalty. They cannot hear my glee, but it is boundless as I creep closer.
"Unhand me you traitorous snakes!" he shrieks within their grasp, which is answered with a swift blow to his head. The gold of the crown blurs, as it bounces along the ground to fall at the feet of a lanky woman. Jeering she puffs out her cheeks, "Have a look at me now, I'm the bloody king" she says as she places the circlet to rest on her helmet, her fellows roaring with laughter.
Gregory lay unconscious on the filthy straw of the cell floor for many hours, as the sounds of reallocation rang out in the halls beyond. There had been maybe an hour of fighting before the military had surrendered, opening the inner Keep to common folk, so they might redistribute the wealth that had been drained from them. Thirty casualties marked the brief scuffle, evenly distributed between the two factions.
Through narrow bars, I watch them build the gallows in the courtyard. Gregory coughs and begins to stir at last, I slip back into the shadows, feeling the barrier between us disperse. He sits up, and looks around with panic constricting his features. "Peak-a-boo!" I chirp as I jump out at him.
Taking me in for the first time, his eyes widen in horror. "A-are you death?" he asks shakily, scrambling backwards. "No Gregory, son of Edward, last king of T'ha Veone. I am Malice, who you dedicated your life to. I have come to claim you, but it is they who will kill you." I gesture a taloned hand towards the small window, before I sink my teeth into his putrid soul.
This is my submission for The Ink Well's 86th weekly prompt, Boo! The skill challenge this week was to create a vivid story setting. I hope you've enjoyed where the inspiration took me :)
