The Village under the Scarlett Kings
by Marshall Howden with art by Kaitlynn Robinson
The squire stood on Liar’s Peak, the highest point the villagers could climb in the mountains. These mountains were known as the Gray Witches and they encircled the entire village. In generations past, the elders knew of ancient paths out of the mountains, but since the reign of the Scarlett Kings these paths had been blocked by giant boulders barring escape. The village was a sleepy, quiet place by design and its denizens never spoke of the cursed lives they endured. For year after year as one vicious Scarlett King gave way to an even more wicked heir, this shadow dynasty ruled over the village with one weapon, fear.
Every season when the autumn leaves fell, a citizen of the village was dragged by guards to the Manor of the Scarlett Kings and no one ever returned. The villagers who survived the longest will tell you that the captives of these tyrannical Kings are allowed to leave the village through secret passages due to dwindling resources. But the younger, more cynical residents of this tired village such as the squire sitting atop Liar’s Peak knew better.
The squires were the young apprentice corps of the guards to the Manor of the Scarlett Kings. And they had all seen too many twisted things inside the clandestine halls of the manor. This particular squire who now had a bird’s eye view of the whole village had witnessed his fair share of macabre realities such as blood stained halls in the manor and strange rumblings deep into the nights. And this night that he had climbed one of the only trails into the mountains was the eve of his consecration into the brotherhood of the Scarlett Guards.
Much too early the next morning when the sky was still dark, the squire was awoken by his superior, which was the normal occurrence. But this time, his superior guard was accompanied by two hooded figures on either of his sides. These figures were cloaked in robes of the deepest, most mesmerizing red hue. And without any of them saying a word, the squire felt compelled to follow them.
They marched down the same hallways that had always housed omens of death in the eyes of the squire and came upon a great door in the inner chamber that the boy had never entered. It quickly became apparent that this room was the sanctum of the Scarlett Knights and their namesake continued to describe their abode. In the middle of this room through that great door was a pool of deep crimson not quite as thick as paint and not quite as thin as wine.
The squire had never laid eyes on the King like most of the villagers, but he knew of his lineage. Before the squire, on the throne of the Scarlett Kings, sat Rosicruz the Sixth, the 50th King in his line. But even though the squire was forced to learn the geneology of this King, the Monarch before him did not match his Heraldic description. King Rosicruz had occupied the throne for 68 autumns but he did not look of this advanced age, although, the royal didn’t quite look young either…more preserved, almost as if the King had been entombed in the mythical tundras north of the mountains.
The King stood up at the pedestal of his throne and begun to recite, or perhaps chant a list of names, “Aurianna Waters, Blanca Dawn Snow, Viola Ebonstar” and so on and so on. The squire recognized these ancient names by the since forgotten naming customs of the original tribe of the village when the earth was much more a part of their lives. But as the King kept reciting names they began to become even more familiar to the squire. Whereas, by the end of the royal recitation, the young initiate into the rights of this order of Kings guard realized that the King was proclaiming, in order, the list of those villagers who had disappeared into the Manor, year after year.
The King stopped and lifted a large goblet from a small table to the right of his throne and approached the red pool in the center of the room. The squire wasn’t the only initiate at this ceremony, he did have one other peer rising to the same rank of Kings guard that he was, but he couldn’t help but feel like the center of attention in this wicked ceremony. As if, at any moment, the King would look up and proclaim him a usurper. The squire’s only guilt came from the fact that he had a pure heart and wanted nothing to do with whatever dark art or monarchic cannibalism was taking place.
The King approached this pool, which was now obviously revealed as blood of the fallen villagers and submerged his goblet in this alter of corrupt sacrament. But before the squire witnessed the goblet touch the lips of the King to drink, his instinct go the best of him.
The squire pounced up from the kneeling reverential posture they had him in and turned and ran! His heart was beating as fast as the world around him had immediately become slow. His superior guards were frozen at first both still locked in the trance state of the ceremony and in disbelief of such a forbidden act to break the ceremony. Now in dead sprint, the squire knew that wherever his feet were taking him would certainly lead to demise.
He ran out past the great door, past the Tapestries of the Rosicruz Kings, and up the spiral stairs once he reached the outer cloister. At the top of the stairs was a sentry’s station and the squire snagged a parchment and quill before he continued his run through the trespassed upon manor. At which point, the squire looked back for the first time. He had expected to see guards chasing after him but instead what he saw sent a chill up his spine that would never leave him for the rest of his soon to end life. The Gothic King was advancing toward him at an alarming rate with a movement that could only be described as gliding with an ominous stride.
The squire knew that the guard’s tower was near and that this was his only chance to send a prayer to a guardian angel. He rounded the corner with the King gaining on him with every step and opened the guard’s tower door with a squire’s key. The door shut behind him and the King barreled into its wooden frame with the might of 68 villagers.
As the King beat down the door with inhuman might, the squire briskly retrieved the parchment he took from the top of the stairs and as quickly as he could jotted a message. It was in this moment that the King burst through the destroyed door. His crown digging into his bulging angry face, but his complexion was white as a ghost.
The squire knew these were his last moments. He took the parchment he had written the message on and began climbing the ladder to the roof of the guards tower with the speed of a freedom rider. He burst through the door of the roof and approached the giant catapult that defended the manor and attached his parchment to the projectile to be launched. The squire swung the catapult around just as the King reached the top of the ladder. The defense weapon aimed toward the mountains was fired by the squire just as he felt his body jolt back being grabbed by the King. The evil monarch’s fingers dug into the arms of the wayward apprentice as he held him suspended in the air, and in a final breath the squire saw the fangs of the King as his neck was bit!
The squire became limp and tumbled off the side of the guards tower to his demise. But as he fell, he flew triumphant because flying through the air was the payload he sent with a message. The cannonball fired from the catapult landed right where it was supposed to, back on the highest point of Liar’s Peak.
So that whoever finds the squire’s last message would be someone adventurous enough to accept the mission. For the parchment that the squire grabbed at the top of the stairs was a map to the only passage out of the mountains and his message read “The last of your Kings will build a mausoleum around him, and when he consumes the last of his subjects, he will be alone…a prisoner in his family’s tomb…Your King is a Dracuul!”
