A King's Judgement

17 May 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner

Underground, beneath a long abandoned and thrice foreclosed castle, sat a family crypt which dated back to the earliest kingdoms of Crimson Rock. Despite still being accessible, it had lain undisturbed by Men, Elves, Half-Elves, Orcs, Drow, Goblins, or even Double Goblins. Yet in all this time, a new kingdom arose among the detritus and decay.

King Whiskers, third of his name, clanged his tiny acorn to signal the guards to shut the council chambers. The two armored mice sheathed their little drink swords, and closed the makeshift doors to the chamber. The Ruling Council, clad in leftover dish rags they had fashioned into robes, became still. The King sipped from his ratwine, relishing the uncomfortable silence which had fallen over the room. He had already thrown back several thimbles full, and he finished off this one in a single gulp to steady his nerves. As he stood on his back feet, he carefully removed the tiny crown which had once been a ring in a set of costume jewelry. Even without it, the regalness of the silver streak along his back gave credence to his royal blood. His reign had been a long six months, and many hoped for more. He addressed the room.

“Squeak…,” he began. “Squeak squeak-squeak!”

A shrill gasp emanated from the Ruling Council. Several of them shivered in their rag-robes and a few began wringing their tails. Their time on the council had been fruitful under this king, especially that time he discovered a discarded pear. Anything to endanger their wealth worried them beyond words. The councilmember who sat at the throne’s right hand began to squeak, but one look from his king quieted the dissonant voice to that of a field mouse and then to silence. The decision had been made. There would be no changing his mind.

The King bristled his rather adorable, curled whiskers at the guards, and they reopened the doors. Two new guards carried in a mouse in filthy prisoner’s rags and flung him to the ground in front of the king. He remained flat against the ground, his ribcage compressed as though he had tried to crawl underneath the door, but really it was because he had been deprived for weeks now. The mouse prisoner was dark in fur save for the faded silver down the back of his neck, and his tail had many kinks in it. He barely breathed. King Whiskers bade the mice away as he withdrew his ancestral blade.

Heartseeker, for it always struck true. Silverwing, for the shapes it created as it cut through the air. Darning, for it was an abandoned sewing needle. He held it high, and though they were deep underground, it shone as though a small beam of light hit it at all times. He squeaked, bidding the prisoner to rise.

Like a balloon inflating, the prisoner mouse rose. His lungs expanded and he sat back. He was roguish, with crooked ears that had pieces missing, and a small cut across his right eye which had left it blind. He was known as Oil, and this was to be his day of judgement. His crimes had been many, and on this day he would find his absolution at the end of a needle once used to repair the torn knickers of a nobleman who had overstuffed himself on sweets. He smirked.

“Squeak,” he said coolly.

King Whiskers sneered and shook his head. He pointed Darning to one of the guards at the door who, without hesitation, removed his curved upholstery blade and tossed it expediently towards Oil’s feet. Oil reached down and grasped the eye of the needle-blade. He tested its weight, and eschewing the fashion of the time, held it so that the curve of the blade pointed away from his body, like a long sickle.

“Squeak?” Asked the King in a mocking tone.

“Squeak squeak,” answered Oil, hiding any disgust at being given such an ineffective weapon.

The Ruling Council in the tiny chairs surrounding the king and the prisoner began to murmur. As they did, they started to clang their own acorns against the arms of their chair in a rhythmic beat. Once the beat settled into a steady rhythm, they chanted.

Squeak. Squeak squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak squeak. Squeak.

King Whiskers and Oil began to circle one another. Oil swung the curved needle blade, its singing drowned out by the chanting of the council. King Whiskers batted it away with ease. They exchanged several such attacks, each deflected by the other. However, the council’s chanting grew in fervor as the King, their King, sent away the blade with ease while the loathsome prisoner still struggled to master his weapon. The dance continued, with the king leading.

Darning led the charge, shining to life as it flung away each blow and answering with its own. Oil slid to the side each time, losing whiskers in the process. His steps became erratic, as though he were drunk on ratwine instead of simply being exhausted from extensive torture on a miniature rack made from old thread spools. Yet, despite these hardships, Oil managed to block and deflect each blow. The king, growing restless, grew more aggressive in his strides. He swung. He parried. He swung again. Nothing made it through.

Then at last, connection. Darning tasted flesh as it poked through the shoulder of Oil’s sword-arm. Then it relented. It would not hastily end the fight. The accused must be forced to endure many more bites before the killing blow, as was their mouse tradition. To do anything else would ensure poor cheese yields for three generations, or two months, whichever came first. Oil grasped at his shoulder, wincing. The chanting and clamor of the Ruling Council died down.

“Squeak, squeak squeak squeak,” Oil said in a beckoning tone.

“Squeak? Squeak squeak?” Answered King Whiskers.

“Squeak,” said Oil as he stood upright and passed the curved needle into his other hand.

The fight immediately took on a new tempo. Oil’s strikes became fiercer, yet still contained grace. The blade itself became an extension of his arm, flying through the air like the tail of a scorpion. The King suddenly found himself only able to defend. As the attack continued, Darning sang but its tenor lilted. Then, it happened. A misstep. The curved blade, still held with the long arm pointed away from Oil, had found its mark as the tip sank into the fleshy thigh of the king before recoiling back to Oil’s arm.

He squeaked in pain. A tumult grew from the Ruling Council, several throwing their acorn tops down in disgust. The King’s advisor squeaked to the guards and one of them approached the two combatants, but King Whiskers held up a paw.

“Squeak,” he commanded.

The guard stopped in place and bowed before returning to his station. The fight would continue. There would be no further interruptions. The King rose to his feet to face Oil. As he did, he unclasped his cloak made from a cast-off handkerchief. The two continued to stare at one another, sizing up their stances and orientation. The mental game of chess had begun, as each waited for an opening or position they could take as their advantage.

The myriad decisions narrowed into one single movement as the two charged towards one another, needle blades at the ready. Then it was over. The instant had passed, and the decision final. King Whiskers, third of his name, Herald of the Sarcophagans, and four time winner of the Who Could Fit the Most Cheese in Their Cheeks Challenge, fell.

Darning clattered away across the stone floor, its light fading as it slid out of time and memory. Oil turned to the fallen king and stood over him. He raised the curved needle blade high above his head, and dropped it. As it fell he collapsed to his knees. The Ruling Council gasped in a sound so loud, a human would have possibly been able to hear it assuming they were pretty close and had little to no hearing damage.

Oil turned Whiskers to his back and laid his paws over his chest after closing each of his eyes. Even in death, he looked regal. He picked up the blade again and strode to the throne. Once there, he inspected the crown. It was tarnished, but still held within it a great dignity. However, as he raised it to put on his own brow, the mice of the Ruling Council began to squeak in displeasure.

“Squeak!” He called, doing little to silence their discourse. Oil turned to his one-time captors. He knew their fears. He knew they would not easily welcome him despite the royal blood in his veins. After all, who could cherish a mouse who would kill his own brother? Then again, who could support a mouse who had exiled his own brother?

He picked up the curved blade and held it out, pointing the tip to each member as he spoke.

“Squeak squeak,” he started. “Squeak. Squeak?”

The council quieted at once. For a time, silence returned to the hall. The advisor of the Ruling Council spoke first.

“Squeak,” he answered.

There were murmurs of agreement. Oil smiled and let his true sword arm fall. The crown fit snugly, and sat well despite his misshapen ears. He sat down. The throne was cold.

Perhaps, he thought, he would be able to keep it warm. For a time at least. And thus a new reign of mousedom began.

THE END