Ethel’s Emissary, Edward

The old man sighed as he opened the leather tube on his saddle and took another look at the “golden” scroll case it contained. When he had left the castle it had been festooned with ribbons and seals, a message of abject groveling and capitulation dressed up like a present. The case had been beaten up by the hard journey on the road, the wax seals cracked and falling off, its gilded surface worn away to reveal the soft wood underneath.

Edward was sure that he looked much the same. His dress uniform had started out as a veritable bouquet of colors, with puffy sleeves and ballooning pantaloons. Now it was deflated and drab from a week of hard riding through the baking sun of the desert, followed by three days of cold rain that occasionally turned to snow. His face was red and chapped. At least he had removed the ridiculous ribbons they had placed in his beard and hair as he rode out from the Fornian capital, although he hadn’t been able to successfully do the same for his horse, and two or three of them were still tangled in the animal’s mane.

There were days, and this was one of them, that Edward was utterly convinced that he was the only adult inhabitant of a kingdom ruled by spoiled children.

In the case of his mistress— the Duchess Ethel Von Demoran, this was literally true. She had just turned ten when her father had been killed fighting against the Marengian invaders on a distant battlefield six months ago. He had fallen nobly, leading a glorious charge against the hordes. But the enemy spear that had pierced his guts gave no deference to nobility. Duke Samson Demoran had died as slowly, and in as much agonizing pain, as any lowly coward.

The Duke’s body had been brought home to be greeted with endless memorials of great reverence and respect, but no amount of tribute could reverse the fact that the man was dead. Now his entire grieving kingdom was under the rule of his orphaned daughter (her mother dying giving birth). A little girl now sat on the Duchal throne of Forian, completely unaware of the delicate matters of state that had fallen on her tiny shoulders. After being told that the Publican Empire had fallen to the invaders, she had proudly proclaimed that everyone in the kingdom should take a holiday in honor of her pet rabbit, Mr. Fluffkins.

But, if he was being honest with himself, and there was nothing to do but be honest when riding to your doom in the pissing rain, the duchy of Fornian had always been a fool’s paradise. Surrounded on all sides by almost impenetrable mountains the kingdom enjoyed warmth and sunshine almost all year round while its desert neighbors suffered snow and drought. It also had plenty of arable farmland, an endless supply of sweet spring water, and abundant natural game that almost as stupid as it was delicious.

It was also, beyond all common sense, continually teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, as the Demoran family had always had a tendency constantly build grand gardens, contemplative pools, and towering monuments it could barely afford, while letting its roadways, aqueducts, and other civic projects collapse into ruin.

That had been fine when the kingdom had been ruled over by a friendly Emperor with deep pockets who enjoyed taking long vacations to his winter castle high in the Fornian mountains. But that Pubrican dynasty was gone now, slaughtered by the ochre skinned, squint-eyed invaders from the south.

Now that he was so close to the gates of Pubrica, or whatever those bastard Marengians called the capital city now, he was seeing more and more of their soldiers on the roads, dressed in their strange wooden armor. He wanted to hate them, but he hadn’t fought against them in the war, and they seemed mostly well behaved. As an invading army they were certainly doing far more actual policing than the kind of raping and pillaging that the Pubrican army had been so famous for.

Edward thought about the message he carried in the sealed case—an oath of fealty to their new leader from an eleven year old girl. It was reasonable to assume that no matter how much he begged and pleaded, the “The Most High Exalted Marengian Emperor Khalin” would have no need to maintain a tiny Duchy ruled by child.

Edward let out a long sigh as he passed through the main gate of the city, trying to sit up in his seat, if only to distinguish himself from the downtrodden masses swarming all around the legs of his horse. He managed only a few seconds of the most basic bravado before a shooting pain travelling up and down his back caused him to slump back down in the saddle.

He wondered how long it would be from the time they opened his message, as generous and well-meaning as it was, before his noggin was rising up on a spike over the main wall. He was sure he would survive at least until everyone in the court stopped laughing.

Trying to suppress the bitter frown that was creeping across the left side of his face, he looked up to the bloodstained inner walls where the Publican emperor had placed the severed heads from a seemingly endless supply of traitors and fools. Long spikes still poked out from the holes in the walls, but it was a slight comfort to notice that they were currently free of noggins. Either the Marengians were more civilized, or simply had new, and more exotic humiliations to visit on their enemies.