At once, The Tyrant sensed the threat

  And had his minions make defence;

  Our heroes were in seconds blocked

  By fortresses built on the spot,

  By ranks of cronies huddling stiff,

  By traps and witch-spells gathered quick.

  The Satyr Knight, brief from the start,

  Was toppled by a poisoned dart,

  His fate alas to slay one lord

  But not the shadow emperor.

  Justinian fought through tears alone,

  Appending his companion goat

  To the tragic list of murdered friendships

  Whose memories fuelled his knight’s vendetta.

  The goat, from mortal toils freed,

  Was joined by countless hirelings,

  Whose masses our survivor slew

  As charged them from the castle’s rooms.

  From walls and holes, they multiplied,

  But none could halt our vengeful knight;

  Equipped he was with gifts galore,

  Collected in the tale before:

  The teachings of Betruger’s art,

  The doubled curse by Joan of Arc,

  That strongest prize, of all: his faith,

  A faith that evil could not reign

  So long as knights of fable stood

  For Camelot and Saana’s good.

  Worlddrinker also helped, of course,

  Its vampire thirst absorbing gore,

  Sustaining him through wounds afresh

  And saving him from certain death.

  The troops, against its Christian swipes

  Were razed like grass ahewn by scythe,

  Their armoured bodies split in half

  Like spider webs brushed in the dark.

  Though thick as trees, as tall and hardy,

  They fell like forests in Togavi

  When fierce storms tear out root and leaves

  And hurl them distant out to sea.

  “Who be you, knight?” inquired a man,

  One hidden in the bloody ranks,

  Not timid but by danger thrilled,

  Enthralled as its possessor is

  By any chance to witness bloodshed,

  Be it from foe or allied brother.

  Twas He, twas He, that wicked beast,

  That cause of our knight’s every grief!

  “Do share your guild, your grudge, your name,

  That these, by finest craftsmen slave,

  Can be inscribed above your tomb

  And flag for others warning boon.”

  Justinian, immersed in death,

  Replied with speech in soul prepared.

  “My name to you, o fiend, is Justice!

  My grudge is for a life you sundered,

  Which you, who reap in mass each day,

  Have doubtlessly from guilt erased:

  Betruger, my monk teacher, lost

  Inside the swirling holocaust

  Of faces sweetening your drink

  As it dilutes your misgivings!

  No guild have I, but member am

  And servant of Christ’s larger stand,

  Whose heart and memory’s endless reach

  Will not forget your Godless deeds!”

  “Is all that so?” the knave replied,

  Who through Justinian’s speech and fight

  Had eyed with greed the sword of gold,

  “What splendid blade my Justice holds!

  Ortheerian in make, I guess?

  That’s Worlddrinker, I’ll bet my neck.

  So fine and sharp a souvenir,

  For finding it, O Knight Unpeered,

  You have a tyrant’s jealousness!

  And for your bold deliverance

  Of it into my castle roost,

  You have a tyrant’s gratitude.”

  And endless poured the soldier waves

  Who splashed against Justinian’s blade.

  Our knight, fatigued, gave in to shouting

  With anger at the troop-walled coward.

  “As hid you behind Gutkonig,

  So now your cowardice repeats,

  Behind these men of braver statures,

  Which not a tenth your smallness matches!

  If only they could ascertain

  The pinkness of the hidden tail

  And softness of the coat of brown

  Of the rat who wears their unearned crown,

  They’d cast you out where you deserve

  To eat their waste, you scavenger!’

  These charges, our knight hero preached,

  To He who hid from vengeance’s reach,

  Just as He had through His crusades,

  The mess of which would never stain

  A reputation false purloined,

  A reputation bought with coin.

  And you, who listen now, will hear,

  The true face of this privateer,

  Whose methods, dressed up as a lord,

  Contain no gentlemanly cause.

  At once, the soldiers split apart,

  Their movements opening a path,

  Which showed Him resting on a seat

  And drinking from a mug of mead.

  From off this cosy chair, He rose,

  And substituted out His clothes,

  Which changed into an armoured suit,

  Composed from globally-gathered loot.

  A shield thick, the thief equipped,

  One crafted by a pagan witch,

  With front of snakes that hissed to life

  And snapped the nearest troops to bite.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  For weapon, which quite soon would change,

  He drew a glistening ice-forged mace,

  Which had in warfare shown its magic

  By causing those but brushed to shatter.

  Equipped from head to toe in wealth,

  The unnamed emperor pronounced:

  “There was a bet amongst my troops

  For who could pin a nincompoop.

  But for these fighting words, you cry,

  I’ll have to steal their wagered prize.

  Come forward, Sir Knight! Come forward alone!

  I’ll face you without further show!

  This rat will flash the fangs entire

  That helped to crown his black empire!”

  Our knight, perhaps too much of faith,

  Rushed at The Tyrant with his blade;

  Not after taking sixteen steps,

  He would succumb to craftiness,

  His legs collapsing as if drunk

  When someone stealthy thumped his skull

  And sent him downwards, face in soil,

  His mission killed by dirty ploy.

  A host of troops from ambush swarmed;

  They pinned his arms; they stripped his sword,

  Proceeding thence to cycle spells

  That never let him leave the ground.

  “You imbecile,” quoth Him unnamed,

  Repouring mug in throne reclaimed.

  “Why would I match yourself, you dope,

  On legendary powers grown?

  You’ve gone too far beyond the rules

  Of fair and ordinary duels.

  Perhaps The Tyrant might be keen

  For such unbalanced skirmishing

  But I am not—with promise royal—

  That emperor of shade and poison,

  Nor did I plot nor execute

  Whatever deaths you retribute.

  --The Butcher: A comment of Warmooge’s does highlight an interesting point here. Alex Wong accidentally leaks several identifiable qualities of the duellist. At the time, though, his public denials of being The Company’s leader were dismissed as a lazy charade due to his tongue-in-cheek delivery. In retrospect, it’s clear the amusement was from him not lying, from the double play of irony.

  My rodent fangs have but one bite:

  It is the pals I’ve socialised,

  These troops whose numbers pummel you,

  And He of shade the knight pursues.

  In light my skill, I have a deal:

  You join my side, and I will yield

  From having you abused to death;

  We’ll ship you to a real contest,

  A war-front where your skills can spree

  Against a million enemies,

  With army backing to avert

  Another beatdown premature.

  Who knows, if serve the crusade well,

  Perhaps you’ll meet Him for yourself,

  And both of you can hold debate

  About this grudge for which you hate.

  The sword, be sure, you won’t preserve.

  I’m taking that for just deserts.

  Consider it this lesson’s price

  And payment for your moron life.”

  Justinian, our Christian templar,

  Refused to bargain with this devil,

  Preferring heaven with the monk

  And The Satyr Knight, by one dart sunk.

  As slowly he was clubbed to death,

  His enemy the sword possessed

  And brainstormed with His heathen servants

  A made-up tale of its procurement.

  That fable is the one today

  By this deceiver falsely claimed,

  That Worlddrinker had been the tool

  Of armies of invading ghouls

  And not one knight of Christian deed

  Who’d held to faith and chivalry.

  At last, before he passed away,

  The unnamed king a wager made,

  According to His gambler’s custom

  And knowing well the endless blunders

  That would afflict our knight of gold,

  Repeating now his hopeless goal.

  “Justinian, due your ghoulish curse,

  You now to level none return,

  Your honours gone, your skills erased,

  You left with nought except this name.

  Yet mercy, still, I might extend,

  Who is not He but just a friend,

  Who shines where He would cast His shade

  The flaming sun’s much kinder rays.

  You’ve called me rat, said I belong

  Amidst a dumpster smelling strong.

  Across the sea, such place exists,

  A heap beyond our influence;

  To there, dumb sir, you might revive,

  And seek a tournament to try,

  Where youngsters aim our guild to enter

  But you will chance retrieve your weapon.

  I’ll stake you this, your sword of blood,

  You will not rank at number one

  Across the rounds of duels and sixes,

  Not never in your knight existence.

  If you, somehow, defeat this wager,

  I will return your sword donation.

  Good luck, good knight, I wish you smarts

  Throughout this next of life’s restarts,

  That even in your loss assured

  You might the wiser lesson learn.

  You have, with youth, adventured grossly,

  No man, alone, is truly potent,

  He has a time, but then he’s dust.

  Those who prevail are more like us,

  Who stack around them younger talent

  And guide them from a table hammered.”

  While raising thus His mug in toast,

  From comfort of His shadow throne,

  He had His soldier dogs dispel

  Our knight by bludgeoning his crown.

  And that is how our knight arrived,

  Into this land across the tide,

  Repeating month-by-month this end,

  The hopeless trial of that contest.

  Until he can his sword retrieve,

  With which he will avenge the priest,

  He’s vowed no other one to clutch,

  Except his cheap-forged replica.

  This lesser thing, of paltry make,

  Without its brother’s thirst and grace,

  Reminds our knight this fable told,

  Of sword and Christian friends He stole.

  The ruins of a marketplace.

  The last plucked note of the song drifts over a scene of heightened destruction. The makeshift forts have been obliterated. Their broken planks mix with the remnants of the destroyed wagon and smashed metal tanks, from which spill bones and liquified animal juices. The earth without a single drop of rain has turned to muddy slush, moistened as it’s been by gore. The air stinks of blood, and of ash and of decaying viscera.

  The last scent is unusual. The typical post-battle emptiness has not occurred, the heavens seeming to reject their reclamations of the dead. Several thousand corpses lie about, piled on each other, mouths ajar and toothless, limbs amputated, stomachs eviscerated. This stack of death, even more unusually, has already begun to putrefy, attracting swarms of flies who plant their maggots to wriggle with contentment through the bloated yellow meats of failed bravado.

  Several hundred live combatants remain, but they have called a temporary truce. They stand amongst the rot, observing a new fight that has replaced their own.

  A platoon of ash-clad Company boys are skirmishing with a solitary abomination. Though shaped like a human, the creature’s body is composed of a Frankensteinian mish-mash of animal parts. Turtle scales provide its teeth, parrot feathers its nails, and an intercoiling snake one of its two legs, which sprint it about at a pace triple that of any person. The speed of the abomination’s movements, as it dodges missiles and apprehends its isolated enemies, cause six swollen bison teets to swing grotesquely from its torso, spraying a snot-viscous liquid that causes anyone unlucky enough to be splashed to break out with apple-sized pustules. Its head, vaguely familiar, is that of a camel, and the camel’s lashes flutter at a calm, regular beat as the abomination catches one foe after another and exhales a deadly mouthful of flies up through their nostrils, the captive’s body writhing and shrieking as they join the others in the mess of putrefaction.

  That is the bio-weapon. It is almost complete.

  Off to the side of this action, the butcher stores his harp back under his mushroom hat.

  He has taken a seat in a semi-circle with his initial audience - or at least the remnants of them. Placed around him is a ribcage fragment, a severed arm, the ash-pile of the hooligan leader, and the putrefying corpse of the last stooge. They have collected for additional listeners two dead adults, one in an ash-grey soldier’s uniform, the other in a priest’s frock misfittingly squeezed over their armour; these two, agents of some other organisations, were caught attempting to eavesdrop.

  “A curious tale,” says the butcher, closing the notebook and stuffing it under his hat as well. “The Somali left some final comments for sketch ideas, but I don’t think anyone’s dying to hear those.”

  The corpses and other mementoes, through a trick of ventriloquism, laugh hysterically.

  The butcher dismisses the joke as low-brow tripe. “That’s all quite pointless anyway, now that Sister Gate has been vanquished by our knight two-zippo. We might be thankful to Warmooge, however, for the unintentional purpose served, his research having clarified some of the otherwise hidden depths of the last duel. Much like the semi-finals, there is a special sword at stake, a sword that once belonged but doesn’t any longer. The crusader, if he is to retrieve it, must defeat the ultimate, multi-headed, multi-tournament-hoarding, multi-sword-hoarding dragon.

  “Some of the absurdities in the intervening time also gain, if not an explanation, then a position of noteworthiness according to the months-long drama of fate/design. The knight’s impractical adherence to his sword has a deeper genealogy beyond roleplay in his master’s teaching and his obsession with the appropriated Worlddrinker. The last-minute alliance of the knight and the duellist in these competitions—occurring after the former’s original teammates abandoned him for roleplaying and the latter’s were waylaid by ambush—has serendipitously fulfilled the first half of the wager as laid out by Alex Wong. Our knight is now the grand champion of the sixes. This feat—from an objective angle—might have been the much harder one for fate. His knight theatrics have made team manoeuvres impossible in ordinary circumstances, a point evidenced repeatedly across his earlier failures, and in this month’s competitions the circumstances were extraordinary, the ranks of contestants including history’s greatest commander. Fate has seemed to solve this conundrum by putting them together, by convincing this greatest commander to carry the useless knight, but even this union required the surmounting of many difficulties, such as their mutual antipathies. We might, then, re-interpret all the drama unfolding between them—their improbable meeting in a slum, their arguments, their break-ups, and their reuniting—as snaking towards this ultimate goal of partnership for the one tournament. That same partnership, in turn, has assisted with the knight’s other, solo tournament, the team event requiring the duellist to subdue the knight’s theatrics and rationalise his sword-only technique. Going back to the very beginning between the knight and the duellist, their first meeting in this slum also ceases to be so coincidental when it’s recognised, from the tale, that both were sent here by the same mutual acquaintance, that other He, under a near identical context of a goofy, punitive bet.

  “Just a minute,” interrupted the priest with an anonymous background. “What wager is the boy-emperor beholden to?”

  The butcher shrugs. “The transfer of an undefined card. Some deeper sob-story of a deceased mother. This doesn’t matter anymore – as far as I’m aware, the bet has been abandoned, much like all the motives preceding this tournament, the grandeur of which has bouldered aside all lesser happenings and rendered them irrelevant.”

  The two adult corpses and the ash-pile wink secretively.

  “Something’s flipper,” interjected a hooligan. “Puppo Wong ain’t on the smarts about this wool-pull. That’s what you claimed earlier - he’s blaming the whole shtick on Old T. Yet now you’re yabbing that they both got the connect through his manipulations.”

  “That’s where we flirt with fate’s more obscure, more devious mechanisms,” replied the butcher. “They are here thanks to Old Old T, in a sense, yet he’s not himself aware of this. For a time, he’d actually forgotten the knight, only recalling this wager after the two mutuals linked up. Can any of you guess why? The cause of the amnesia was hinted near tale’s end.”

  “Jo was groggo when he juiced the knight?” suggested one hooligan.

  “President Ainsley!” replied the butcher, “Jo was grogged up to his oculars. In fact, in a detail omitted from the knight’s tale, all of the people he was fighting were monstrously groggo. Check this out.”

  He extends a hand to create a projection. Shown is a courtyard in The Company’s palace. A goth-looking vampire knight is encircled by a group of rowdy drunks. They cheer while taking turns at fighting him in small squads and getting cut down by his golden zweihander. The scene is much less epic than described in the knight’s romance.

  The butcher’s corpse audience ask how he’d sourced this footage.

  “I’m not selling out that one for free,” he answers. “Most of these goons weren’t so hammered to forget the incident. However, Old Old T, while trying to construct a grander story of the sword’s acquisition, imposed a gag order. This has subsequently been followed without any leaks, everyone mistaking him at the time for the other Him, who’s notoriously unkind to whistleblowers. Many assumed the knight’s attack was one of His paranoid internal tests, made intentionally comical to lure any tongues loose enough for him to rip out. Recent revelations have, of course, not changed this. Those-in-the-know continue to watch the current duel with furrowed brows.

  “Anyway, regarding this Him ambiguity, the knight’s tale also provides clarification. The pronoun morphs across complex double meanings due to both the duellist and Alex Wong having shared the larger identity of The Company’s shadow leader. Sometimes, the duellist is this ‘He’ but at other times the reference is mifitting. He is what we might call the ‘royal’ He, and in this capacity it is He that orchestrated the death of the knight’s teacher that first initiated the heroic quest for vengeance. That distinction is made by Alex Wong encountering the knight and admitting an honest ignorance of the drama. It also manifested, earlier this week, in a public dispute, where the duellist resolved the grudge by beating some sense into the knight, exposing the dead master as a demon-summoning heretic, and ordering his ex-eunuch soldiers to expose their genitals while proclaiming himself a ‘sword’-returning crusader. Yet, in this other drama of a crusader seeking the return of his swords, He has never been the duellist. Many of the knight’s ravings have been directed more specifically against Alex Wong."

  "Is the sword/crusader double entendre meaningful?" asks the priest.

  “Focus on this one crusader, please - the tale's already over-complicated. But the Him ambiguity adds a funny layer of irony to their present three-way showdown. To the one He, to the duellist, ignorant of this other sword drama, all resentment is in the past and the duel, purged of this history, is just a friendly match without stakes or deeper meaning. To the other He, to Alex Wong, the issues with the knight have never reached a satisfying conclusion, and the current match, which presents a one-in-a-billion chance to fulfil the outstanding wager, strikes him as highly anomalous if not blatantly conspiratorial.

  “Either way, for us observing, the ambiguity might be unimportant. Fate, as far as I’m interpreting from the trending aberrations, seems to be intending on a double loss for both Hims. One He is about to lose the last duel. The other He, through the other’s loss, is about to lose his treasured sword. Everyone loses – except the knight, and, perhaps, ourselves, equipped with this insider knowledge and with the optimism of our creed that teaches that the moments experienced as anarchy and decline by others are for us prime opportunities for soul-expanding profits. I’d remind you, good customers, that the bookies are still open. If you’re bold enough, you might translate this tale of sword and destiny into a killing!”

  His audience, killed already, make no such attempt.

  Nearby, the rampaging abomination peels off a woman’s scalp. Admiring the magenta colour of the victim’s braids, it glues them for a toupee atop its camel head. The creature is apparently a she.