Chapter 1
The cacophony of drunken snores and groans from the naked bodies surrounding Ryle brought him up out of his dreams.
The wheezing and coughing of the prior night’s revelers sounded a perfectly discordant overture to the imminent morning’s regret. Spilled beer and melted lard left over from the evening’s feast coagulated in a puddle between the legs of an impossibly obese, hairy man. Three young women lay snuggled against him, heads resting on his ample belly, faces peaceful as they dreamed lightly, perhaps of lives lost, now forever.
A sharp piercing gag, followed by more muted gurgles jolted Ryle into full consciousness. His heart pounded as if desperately seeking to escape from the chest of a man purposefully pillaging his body as daily routine.
Ryle turned to the source of the noise and saw his new Chief Steward lying face-down in a shallow puddle of beer, apparently struggling to muster up enough coordination to lift his face up out of the unlikely death-trap.
The young lady who had passed out across Ryle’s lap barely seemed to notice when he lifted her clear over his head and tossed her straight towards the drowning Steward.
Her body landed with a thwack about half a meter short of the Steward’s increasingly panicked flailing.
Ryle grunted.
Now he had to actually get up off the gigantic wooden throne to go save the life of the most important member of the fortress staff.
Before he could stand, though, the girl who he’d tossed let out a loud heaving sound and began to vomit up what appeared to be the entire contents of her stomach and then some. Her body convulsed violently, causing the thickest part of her heel into the Chief Steward’s temple. The force of the blow knock his head clear out of the beer puddle, and the torque on his neck acted to sober the man up for just long enough to notice Ryle staring down at him with a look of disdain.
“My Kingson’s servant is here,” the Steward said “for the retrieval of whatever your Honor may require, sir.” His voice was a dull saw on a tree trunk. “How was the evening your honor?”
“Forgettable.” Ryle shot the man his most imperious scowl. “Clearly not as exuberant as yours.”
“The shame of your honor’s servant is unbearable.” the Chief Steward sputtered on the verge of tears.
“The apologies if your honor’s servant are suffused with the shame of a thousand paupers. My Kingson, please spare his loyal servant from—”
The Chief Steward stopped short as a smile broke through Ryle’s feigned anger. The look of confusion—and relief—on his Steward’s face sent Ryle collapsed backwards with howls of laughter loud enough to wake the entire fortress, though none of the party-goers appeared to be even lively aroused from their unconsciousness.
When Ryle finally calmed enough to speak, he shook his head and smiled down at the bewildered Steward. “I truly mean what I’m about to tell you.”
Ryle tossed a small pouch filled with powdered qet at the Steward, and then gestured out across the defiled great hall.
“You are” Ryle said, pointing at the Steward, “without a doubt, the best Chief Steward that this fortress has seen in a thousand years.”
For the first time that morning, the Steward smoked. He opened the pouch Ryle had tossed, held it up to his nose, and snorted vigorously. After a moment, his eyes went wide and his smile expanded to reveal a uniquely full maw of teeth.
Ryle giggled as the Steward straightened himself up, for all the world as if he were presiding over an official Court function, rather than standing nude in a puddle of beer and vomit, a residue of gray qet splashed across his upper lip and the tip of his nose.
“My Kingson,” the Steward said. “Your servant overflows with pride that his humble celebratory gathering exceeded your honor’s expectations.”
Ryle watched the Steward glance around the room and let out a small sigh. Whether it was one of relief for having pleased Ryle or of annoyance in anticipation of the clean-up ahead, the amused Kingson couldn’t tell.
Ryle opened his hands. “That being said—”
“The revelers shall be removed at once” the Steward said. “Long before the King returns from the front this evening.”
Did I say you were the best Steward in a thousand years?” Ryle laughed. “Perhaps it’s ten thousand!”
Ryle rose from the throne and handed the Steward a set of robes from the floor. When the Steward reached out and grabbed them, Ryle noticed—for the first time—the symbol of the Behemoth on the Steward’s ring.
“You didn’t tell me you’re in the Tent of Behemoth,” Ryle said.
“My Kingson never asked, sir.”
Like every member of the Tent, the Steward seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any further, even with someone in as high a place of power as Ryle’s. Or maybe especially with someone in Ryle’s position.
Ryle could press the issue, of course. Being the son of the King gave him that prerogative. But he decided against it. The new Chief Steward’s festival-making had earned he man a reprieve at least temporarily, from discussing uncomfortable topics.
“You would make an excellent friend,” Ryle said. And he meant it.
Ryle had no friends. No social acquaintances even. The isolation engendered by the unique situation into which he’d been born necessitated a life as an apparition amongst the tangible masses, floating through hazy clouds of angst and loneliness.
As for those who would cross the barrier between their duty to the Fortress and Ryle’s constant desire for companionship…
“Well a friend I shall b—”
The Steward’s voice cut out and his eyes widened as he stared down at the hilt of the blade Ryle had pressed deep into the center of the Steward’s chest.
“No,” Ryle sighed, “you won’t.”
Ryle tilted the the blade upwards as he pressed deeper in the man’s heart, a measure of mercy meant to shock the Steward into as quick a death as possible.
“Best steward in ten thousand years,” Ryle whispered as the Steward’s terrified eyes went blank and he entered his final death throes. “Perhaps a hundred thousand.”
When Ryle felt the Steward’s body go limp, he slid the knife out of the dead man and let the body drop to the floor in a heap.
Ryle sighed one final time and called out, a tone of resignation just barely noticeable in his voice.
“You can come out now,” Ryle said. “It’s done.”
