The Icarian King

The flames engulfed the town. Slipshod homes of peasants and beggars only slipped at the seams. The residents in kingdom commissioned housing only watched or ran in horror as their homes became furnaces of malice, the flames licking away their livelihoods, leaving behind a decrepit, black ash. Screams echoed through the streets, mothers looking for lost children, fathers fighting the sweeping soldiers on horseback. Blood and despair painted the streets as the king, Gervesin, claimed the fallen village his own. He laughed haughtily as he planted the all-black flag in the crumbling town square.

“Gather the riches,” he declared, “and the women!” The king’s orders were answered with a parade of hoorahs from his soldiers. They dispersed, swiping at the disconsolate, crawling bodies on the streets with their swords as they rode. Women were bound, hogtied and gagged, and thrown upon the horses, leaving their children behind. Homes were pillaged further, any scrap of silver and gold to be taken back to Gervesin’s kingdom.

*

The kingdom of Daral, the largest in the world, spanned millions of acres. The spoils of rape and pillaging were graciously invested into the homeland. Palaces of marble and gold lined the sky, glimmering under the shining sun. They stretched for hundreds of acres along the hills of Daral housing citizens for no cost. Livestock roamed freely and flora grew spontaneously amongst the land. Just as spontaneously, great, ornate churches, celebrating the king and God, were erected in his honor and glory. The stained glass illuminated the kingdom in a glow of rosy reds, cool blues and greens, and fiery rings of gold by midday. Halls of food, cooked by lively chefs, and drink, of the finest ale and mead, were mainstays for the citizens and, more often, the soldiers. They ate and drank heartily, merry in wake of conquering.

No poverty, nor illness or peasantry struck the citizens of this kingdom. They did work as they pleased, creating art and infrastructure for the betterment of their society. Carpenters built, painters painted, weavers wove, orators spoke, and all the while prayed thanks to their God and king. The kingdom flourished under the reign of Gervesin.

“What a mighty king,” his people exclaimed, enamored by the denouement of the king’s domination. They knew nothing of how the king acquired these riches, only thankful that he showered them with the spoils. The king, never satisfied, sought more. More riches, more power, influence. With nothing left to conquer, the king walked the streets of his kingdom to think.

*

His heels clicking along the cobblestoned streets, Gervesin paced through the empty streets searching for answers on the day of the Sabbath. The hum of praise from churches bounced and hung lightly between the tall buildings. The king stopped short of the entrance to the largest church of the kingdom. Above the door, standing dozens of feet tall, was a gilded God, hanging and limp, staring right at him. They stared solemnly at each other, absorbing the praises within the cathedral. Gervesin swung the heavy, cathedral door open. Mumblings and choirs of praise silenced as he paced the auditorium of the church. He drew oohs and ahhs as he mumbled and walked and mumbled and turned on a heel and walked and argued with himself. The crowd grew restless as he continued pacing in silence.

A humble citizen threw himself at the feet of the king. “Thank God for our holy King,” the citizen repented and repeated. Gervesin stood aghast unsure to interpret this act as a threat or praise. The king picked the citizen up, placed him to the side, and walked to the altar.

He paced as he began to speak, “to whom is it that you pray? Is it not just an anachronism for me and my kingdom? Am I not who thou art be thankful?” Some of the crowd murmured at his sermon, the priests shook their heads. “So, is it that,” he continued, “I’m being slighted in the eye of God by my very own people?” The crowd gasped at this assumption, a lucky few snuck out of the cathedral. Gervesin continued, face turning red, “Tis not enough for thee? Thy God think naught,” he finished angrily, “I am your God now.” The church was in an uproar at these words. The priests took the altar expeditiously.

“M'Lord, what is the meaning of this?” asked one of the priests.

“I am your God now. You shall build thine statue as one would God.”

“King, you are mighty indeed,” began a priest, “but God’s power is much greater than yours; we dare not obey your orders.”

“Well,” said the king, “then I will conquer God, too.”

*

Gervesin’s ship, affectionately named Obsidian’s Swan, was a marvel that would startle even God. Housing hundreds of the bravest compatriots of the Daral kingdom, the ship contained hundreds of rooms complemented by mess halls and leisure areas. The soldiers couldn’t even tell they hadn’t left the ground, nor feel the effects of the absence of water below their feet and the thinness of the air above. The ship was outfitted with sails of immeasurable length, crafted from a fortnight worth of weaving from the kingdom’s women. Carved into the forward bow, a haloed Gervesin figurehead stood spread eagle, welcoming threats of blasphemy. Lining the port and starboard sides of the ship were the finest weapons of the kingdom. Combustion propellant devices, invented by the kingdom’s greatest minds, insured victory for the king. Thousands of these devices could be activated with the twitch of a finger by Gervesin. The ship, seemingly touched by the hand of God himself, soared through the sky under the wings of murders and murders of crows.

Angered by Gervesin’s gall, an ophanim went to stop the king’s ascent. The multi-eyed monstrosity bounded upon the blasphemous chariot. Yoxalle, the king’s premier warrior, was the first to sight the ophanim.

“King! Tis an omen, how shall we –,” Yoxalle blurted before screaming in horror. He had stared too long at the winged, multi-wheeled atrocity folding in on itself in the sky. “Don’ loo’ m’ king!” Yoxalle said between winces of pain and manic mutterings. He was blind and half-mad. Screams echoed here and there throughout the ship as unfortunate soldiers and shipmates caught sight of His omen. Gervesin, horrified by the guttural, primal torture of his kingdom activated the thousands of devices of his ship at once.

“I will conquer God!” screamed the king with his eyes shut, “I have sworn it. My will must be done!” The pellets of random pieces of silver, gold, and stone pierced the ophanim. The king unsure of the success of his assault, peeked at the omen through a half-eye. In the sky hung the ophanim, bleeding, wings incorrigible, crying gemstones. As rubies, garnet, and emeralds showered the skies, the angel sunk down through the clouds and landed with a splash into the murky waters below. The screams of the afflicted subsided but their sightlessness did not.

The king roared in laughter. “Lest you jest, God,” the king mocked, “you must do better than that!” Despite promises of hell and plagues, He could not. The ship and its people, as if protected by arrogant providence, withstood sickness, drought and hail, bloody red rain, pests, and darkness as the king continued his ascension.

There were no discernible differences between heaven and Earth as far as the king could tell, except for the feeling in the pit of his stomach, one like the buoyancy of inebriation. Clouds illuminated reddish gold as they floated upon a seemingly ordinary village in the sky. Six insignificant houses lined each side of the one singular of the village that lead to the temple. The citizens and soldiers of Daral stalked through heaven, a quiet hush of excitement amongst the bunch, led by their king.

The temple, made of marble with traces of opal and gold, housed only a throne and a cross in a spacious room. Waiting for the crowd, cowering behind the throne, was a person.

“Show yourself, God,” said Gervesin. An ordinary man peeked out from behind the throne. Hesitantly, he came out of hiding. He was slight in build, long red hair to his shoulders, bright against his dark skin, and wearing only scraps of clothing – his ribs were poking through the wear of the patches. The man, eyes bloodshot, trembled, at a loss for words.

“This is the God I’ve come to conquer,” questioned Gervesin. The sight of this god pained the king as he was nothing he imagined, hardly worth conquest the king thought.

“This is the man you’ve prayed to,” Gervesin said as he turned to his people, “the god you deem worthier than I.” The crowd now quiet, squirmed at his questioning.

“Tis no matter, I am your God now,” the king reiterated, “if he shall submit peacefully.” The man said nothing, only cowered in his throne. Gervesin grew impatient of the man’s reticence. The king strode forward sheathing his sword and pointing it at the throat of the man in the throne. The man closed his eyes and bowed his head, seeming to accept his fate. Irritated, the king swiftly pulled his sword back and as he swung, the man croaked, aiming to speak. The king stopped mid-swing.

“Speak!” he demanded. The man fumbled for words for several seconds before deciding what to say. Gervesin provided incentive by pulling his face right up to the man’s and holding a dagger to his neck. “Speak, now,” the king repeated.

“God,” the man began slowly, “is gone. He abandoned us long ago.”

The king narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He looked around; heaven is quite empty the king thought to himself. The only non-Daralian was the man cowering before him.

“Then who are you?” Gervesin finally asked. The man looked around sketchily, seemingly at nothing.

“No one,” the man said, “I was sent here by accident, only to discover an empty heaven.” The king was unsure of the man’s story. His eyes housed a glaze that radiated trauma and fear.

“And you’ve seen no God,” the king counterquestioned. The man shook his head. The king raised a brow, perplexed with his unpunished blasphemy. He decided then, that it must be destiny – King Gervesin was sent to claim the throne of God and take his place. The king shooed the man away from the throne. Gervesin stood before the throne and addressed his people.

“It is clear, that I, Gervesin of the great kingdom of Daral, has been deemed worthy of the throne of God,” the king said. “You shall return home,” he continued, “to Daral and tell the story of your great king turned God.” The crowd return to Daral, some frustratedly grumbling, namely Yoxalle, others content but by no means elated, and the rest, simply confused.

*

“And in Gervesin’s name we pray, amen,” said the boy’s mother, blessing the dinner. The boy never took part in these rituals, he knew better. His great grandfather, whom he was named after, told him the stories of the false grandeur of the god they worship and how there used to be a worthy god. Yoxele grasped to every word the blind, senile old man said. The boy was enamored by stories of flying ships and predacious angels, images of heaven and an ungrateful king-turned-God. His great grandfather always ended these stories with a hint of disgust – “and someday, a vengeful God shall return,” he always finished.

The boy picked at his food. Pieces of cabbage mingled with cold beans and stale bread.

“Eat your food, boy,” the mother begged. Yoxele shoveled a few bites and forced it down with milk. The boy was tired of eating the stale nutrients his mother called food. Since his grandfather died, he was discontented with the conditions of their lives. The tin roof of their shack seemed to sag further, the “food” was decidedly worse, and their work seemed to bring in less and less shillings.

“What happened to the old God,” the boy blurted out in a fit of annoyance, “he never would’ve allowed us to be poor.” The boy’s mother shushed him viciously, looked up towards the ceiling and crossed her heart, vehemently begging forgiveness under her breath. Yoxele rolled his eyes as he remembered the stories of the once prosperous nation of Daral, absent of all poverty and unhappiness. Now, only shoddy shacks and peasants wandered the streets. Generations of ignored prayers saw Daralian citizens to suffer from plague and poverty. They suffered and wallowed in their horrors as the grime became their essence. How could the same king that led this prosperous kingdom fail to do the same as God, the boy often asked himself.

“Gervesin is our God, boy,” the mother exasperated, “he works in mysterious ways.” The mother had always been blinded by her faith to the false God – an effect of her father being a second-generation priest preaching the word of Gervesin. “Keep your faith,” she continued, “and we shall be prosperous once more.” The boy knew she was wrong; Daral had been entrenched in war since before he was born, bodies lined the outskirts of the kingdom, and adolescents like him were sent to the frontlines everyday to defend Gervesin’s absent name against the non-believers.

The sect of non-believers and Daralian abolitionist, called themselves Disciples of Old God, but were referred to as traitors by most. Because the boy knew his mother was so often wrong in her assessment of faith, he knew he must join the traitorous group. His chance came sooner than he expected.

One day, on a market run for his mother, gathering the same old cabbage, peas, and bread, an ambush of Disciples rushed the town. The traitorous group felled every image of Gervesin they could find - statues were toppled, emblems and churches dedicated to the false God were burned and replaced with images of the God of Old and crosses. People of Gervesian faith fought to defend their God, blood was shed, bodies of both faiths were strewn through the streets of the town.

Yoxele shrank behind a building to avoid being seen – he wasn’t fearful but rather excited to see his idols in action. He watched as a God of Old soldier impaled a Gervesian with incredible strength through chainmail. The Gervesian fell and pleaded to his God for mercy, but the soldier, disgusted with the opposing soldier’s blasphemy, withdrew the sword once more and sliced across his neck. Yoxele yelped as blood spurted from the fallen soldier’s neck and sprayed the feet of the victor. The soldier turned in the direction of the yelp, drawing his sword to fight once more.

“Who goes there?” the soldiers said aloud. Yoxele came out from behind cover with his hands raised. “Who do you praise?” the soldier asked, pouncing into a defensive stance.

The boy tried to put on his sternest, most valiant voice, “I am Yoxele, kin of legendary warrior, Yoxalle, and believer of the God of Old.” The soldier bowed his head and sheathed his sword.

“Do you wish to join the legion?” the soldier asked, examining the boy. The boy nodded his head excitedly. “Come with me, then,” he ordered. The soldier, followed by the boy, and his fellow Disciples retreated deep within the forest surrounding Daral. The forest oozed of Disciples, ranging from runaway teens to the decrepit old there to impart wisdom and oral tales. Elaborate systems of camps with innumerable tents spanned hundreds of acres across the forest. When the boy reached a clearing containing a camp, the soldier leading barked out orders to get him fitted for armor and weapons. In a whirlwind, the boy was swept into a tent, measured for chainmail, heavy iron armor donning crosses, a helmet, a sword fitted to his strength and length, and a holster for a dagger. Yoxele was shoved out and told to come back the next day to claim his wares.

The boy, excited about his initiation into the Disciples, could hardly sleep through the night. Images of his great grandfather fighting alongside him in battle, of heaven and the false God, and a twinge of guilt from leaving his mother behind infested his mind and kept him awake. When the boy finally did close his eyes, terror lined the insides of his eyes. The blood from the ambush painted his mind. Swirling, terrifying angels revealed their multi-winged form, and flashes of a dark, red-haired man screaming inked his dreams.

Yoxele woke up in a sweat, disheveled by his nightmares. Recovery was short-lived as the soldier from the day before barked orders into his tent. He had training. The boy found his way to the armory to recover his gear and begin his training. Having never worn armor nor carried a weapon, the boy slumped under the weight of the iron chainmail. He clunked his way out to training.

“Let’s see what you got, prodigy,” the training soldier said mockingly, pointing him to a wooden dummy with a shield and a two by four as a weapon. The boy swung his heavy sword and missed the dummy entirely. “Again,” the trainer said. Another swing, another miss. The boy closed his eyes, ignoring the snickering guard, and took a deep breath. Just as he was about to open his eyes, he saw the man from his dream again. Yoxele snapped his eyes open, and with a sudden burst of energy, struck the dummy in a flurry of combative combinations that surprised even himself. The training soldier stood aside with his mouth agape and murmured prodigy repeatedly. Yoxele struck again, straw and cotton erupted from the guts of the dummy. Shocked, but satisfied by the revelation of his newfound skill, the boy stopped while he was ahead.

The talk of camp that night at dinner was raving of the swordsmanship of the newest recruit. Whispers of “legend has it” and “it’s his destiny” caused a plethora of craned necks at the longtable. The boy was too busy to notice – the food, far from peas and cabbage, was his only focus. He stuffed himself into a stupor, a voice pulled him from the lull of sleep.

“Heads up, newbie,” a woman’s voice said to Yoxele, “we’re hitting a Gervesian town tomorrow, you in?” The boy nodded in agreement, only partially sure what he agreed to. “I want you in my squadron,” she continued to a half-listening recruit, “see what you’re made of.”

*

The sun blazed over the horizon, the fire of dying light illuminating the unknowing city. Yoxele, and his squadron leader, Annice (whose name he learned under a sober demeanor) stood atop the hill outside of a Gervesian town. She laid out the plans: there were two entrances, Yoxele and Annice and half the soldiers were to take the far exit, while the other half took the front entrance. They were to attack when the town bell struck six times with the front half attacking first to draw attention and the back half surprising the rest of their army. Get in, destroy anything Gervesian, get out. Archers would take care of an stragglers by climbing the outer walls and camping on their tallest buildings. Yoxele had to admit, it was a foolproof plan.

The clock of the village rang six tolls. The crashing of the front gate and subsequent cries of battle signaled the secondary assault. However, to the surprise of the hidden ambush, this town army was well-equipped and ready for attack at all sides. Annice rushed forward, slicing the knee of one soldier, spinning left and at the neck of another. She went to swing at a third, but he parried, and a duel was in place. The clinging of swords and armor rung in the air. Yoxele, so unsure of himself, ducked and dodged between battling soldiers, stepping over dead civilians and fallen soldiers. He backed himself into an alleyway. He closed his eyes to take a break, refocus himself – get in, destroy Gervesians, get out he repeated to himself. When he opened his eyes, two Gervesian soldiers stood in front of Yoxele, trapping him in the alley. He raised his shaking sword. And with another breath and the familiar face lining the inside his eyes, the motions of legendary warrior Yoxalle crept into the boy. He charged the two soldiers, slid under and past their swinging swords, and backed into the open space of the town square. The one on his left swung, Yoxele parried, and slashed the soldier in his midriff. The right soldier attacked precisely as the boy finished the first knight, but not quick enough. The boy, in an almost dragon-like move, ducked and swept his leg under the attacking soldier, causing him to fall to his knees. Yoxele stood over his enemy, “who do you praise,” he asked solemnly. The fallen soldier didn’t answer. The boy swung with all his might upon the exposed neck of the soldier. He missed.

The ground and the soldier in front of him faded, transforming into an untouched golden brick outlay. Yoxele, confused at the lack of blood, spun around, unaware of where he was. He stood in the middle of a street between two rows of six houses leading to a temple. The houses, of Gervesian faith, the boy decided, must be defiled. He swung and slashed his sword upon the first home. The indentations from the slices cut deep, then to Yoxele’s surprise, mended themselves. He swung once more, again the wounds were hemmed. The boy decided the opalescent temple was more important than the drab homes lining the street. He walked up the steps of the temple, expecting there to be statues or emblems to destroy, instead there was only a throne. In the throne sat an old man, eyes hollowed from advanced age, his hands shaking steadily. To his side, the man from his dreams, though he didn’t seem nearly as nightmarish. He was smiling.

“Hello, Yoxele,” the dream man said, “we’ve been waiting for you. My name is Adam.” The boy said nothing, only stared at the crippled heap of wrinkles in the throne. “You may know who this is,” said the dream man, pointing to the throne.

“Gervesin,” he whispered under his breath.

“Quite right,” Adam answered. “I’m sure you want to know more.” The boy slowly shook his head, still not breaking eye contact with the throne. “Touch his hand,” urged Adam. The boy stepped forward, weary of any movement the emaciated man may make. He touched his hand and flashes of memories flooded the boy’s head. He saw Obsidian’s Swan, his great grandfather in his youth, citizens of the Daral of old, and an empty throne. The boy snatched his hand away from the old man’s and frowned.

“You see young one,” Adam began, “the God of Old abandoned us, me, a long time ago, terrified of the hubris of his creation. He lived in fear of the monstrosity he created. He answered no prayer, nor calls upon his name. He foresaw the hopelessness of world containing numerous Gervesian subjects and left. Can we blame Him? Look upon the disarray on the kingdom of Daral under the false God. Look at the toll it has taken upon the false God itself,” he said motioning to Gervesin. “What do you think, young one? Is it better to live in a world with no God at all, or one so perverse in its being, it will willingly corrupt its own people to behold the power of God?” The boy grimaced. “You know how this has to end, Yoxele,” Adam finished.

Yoxele raised his sword, level to the heart of the false God. He slowly penetrated the soft, fragile skin of Gervesin. The king smiled as the last glimpse of life left his eyes.

“The God of Old has prevailed. Onward we march in victory!” declared Yoxele holding the head of a Gervesian soldier. He didn’t dare tell of the Disciples of their abandonment and their lost cause.