Chapter 1: Futillia

“Not a peep from you, maggot!” shouted one of the guards from outside my cell.

I stifled another cough, which was the source of the noise and when he looked at me through the cell bars, I gave him the finger.

“No rations tomorrow for your insolence!” he jeered as he banged his sword on the rotting iron that held me captive and sauntered away, presumably, to instigate more of my fellow inmates.

“W-worth it.” I coughed. I laid back once again on the hard, cold sandy floor that was my home and curled into the fetal position. I draped the scrap of cloth that was my blanket over me, covering my body and willing it to keep me warm. It never did.

I closed my eyes and brought up my hand, resting against it like a pillow until I found a more comfortable spot. This was made difficult, as currently, my hand was purple-black and swollen and I had trouble even closing my fingers into a fist.

I winced slightly, remembering that this was my injured hand. My newly injured hand through absolutely no fault of my own, and begrudgingly rolled over to repeat the ritual of falling asleep. I was always getting injured in this place—we all were in this godforsaken prison. The prison that has been my home for the last 18 months.

I coughed again as I nuzzled my cheek into my non-injured hand, willing myself to fall asleep. Perhaps even to die. For I knew that I would be awoken in only a few short hours only to repeat the back-breaking labor that had so far been my past, present and likely future until I was either killed on the job. Or took my own life.

For, those were the only ways to escape the wretched prison, Futillia.


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“Sire? Sire!” I shouted from high atop my mounted horse. I wiped my brow in an iron-clad hand that was my armor and scanned the horizon. Smoke was billowing from the fires that had broken out across the land during the Great War that had sprung up over the last several months.

“Sire!” I yelled out once again. The man finally turned.

“Yes? What is it?” replied the King.

“My lord. The Western Front has collapsed, and our arrows run low. Even now, we don’t have enough men to operate the catapults on the Eastern Front and the enemy has…mountain trolls.”

“Gods be fools!” said the King through gritted teeth.

“And, what say you, my Captain of the Guard? My most trusted military advisor?” The King looked at me with his piercing blue eyes. Even though he was a man of five and forty with grey at his temples, his large muscular stature and alertness gave off the impression of a much younger man. One wondered if he even had a trace of magic in him to allow him to possess the strength of ten men.

I furrowed my brow, thinking. We had been on the victory path only two days ago when the King had held a secret meeting in the Gilded Wood. A refuge for our allies. Revised battle plans were drawn up and certain victory seemed to be at hand. But, ever since that fateful night, we had tasted not victory, but the sour blood of our brethren.

“My King, I suspect we have been tricked, duped by one of our own?”

“Hark now! Who would betray their king during tumultuous times such as these? Do they not know what is at stake?” he bellowed so loudly his horse bucked and reared. “Calm yourself!” He commanded his steed, who settled at once.

I could feel the King’s eyes upon me, and I gazed up to meet them. I chewed on my dirt-stained lip, fighting to find the words that would be difficult to say aloud.

“Incoming!” cried a scout from the ground who pointed in the air. A great fiery orb arced through the sky on a collision course where we stood. Shouting at our horses, the King and I scattered, with He picking up the scout one handed, and throwing him over his own horse as he galloped away just seconds before the impact hit the ground. There was a massive explosion of sound and the ground shook.

I heard a cry of pain and, for a moment, worried it might be the King. I looked beyond the smoking crater that was almost our final resting place to where the King now was, still mounted on his horse. He hitched the reins, and his horse turned and I saw the reason for the cry I had just heard.

The scout, whom had warned us just seconds before, who was now draped over the King’s horse had a face full of crimson and was moaning. “I just managed to escape with my life, though this man suffered some shrapnel wounds.”

“To the castle? The infirmary.” I said and the King nodded.

Amidst the battle cries and falling shrapnel we made our way to the castle and found ourselves in the infirmary. It was suspiciously empty with several beds unoccupied. There was a door ajar to one side and the curtain that hung there shivered in the wind, thought there was no breeze.
The King carried the scout single-handedly like a father carrying his ill son and placed him upon a bed. “Maester! Where is that wizard!?” shouted the King.

“Here, my lord.” Came a voice from beyond the curtain. A man, bend over with age and clutching an ornate staff made his way over to us. I looked at the Maester with narrowed eyes and chewed my lip once more. The King needed to know.

“This man, he saved our lives.” Said the King gesturing to both he and myself, “and he has sustained grievous wounds. I command you to save him.”

The Maester looked up at the King with his mismatched eyes and held his gaze. “But of course, your Highness. But you—” the old man removed one hand from his staff and held out one gnarled finger, “—you are injured also, do you not see?” He pointed to the King’s chest, but I could see nothing other than the dented metal with a small hole from where his breastplate protected him.

“I do not feel anything, Maester.” Said the King, though his brow furrowed, nonetheless.

“The heat of battle can charge the nerves, making one feel invincible. Here, then. Let me provide you with a restorative tonic, your Highness.” Said the old man. He reached within the folds of his robes and extracted a phial containing an acid-green liquid.

The King held out an outstretched, gloved hand when I intervened. “Sire! I—I have urgent business to discuss with you.”
He looked at me, “Cannot it not wait?”

“It cannot, Sire.”

“Then, out with it. Speak plainly, man!” the King demanded.

I swallowed, but my gaze swept over to the Maester before returning to the King. “I cannot do so, Sire.”

“Well, I—” but I never got the words out.
The Maester moved, quick as lightning and in a combative maneuver, swept first my legs, then the King’s legs from under us. With a thud, each of us clattered to the ground. Weighed down by our armor, I cried out, reaching for my short sword. “My King! Betrayal!”

Instantly, I felt the stabbing pain and crushing blow with the force of a stomping elephant as the Maester bombarded me with his staff, nearly breaking my bones. He kicked the sword from my hands and turned to the King and repeated his malevolent gesture, but this time amidst the striking blows, I could hear bones breaking. Gods, what magic was this!?

The King cried out and the Maester sat astride him, phial in hand, pinning him down and in a deep voice that was not of this world incanted some horrible spell and poured the liquid into the protesting mouth of my King.

“N-noo!” he shouted, then was immediately cut off. The liquid began to smoke and hiss and the King’s body began to writhe and shake, then went still.

Horrified at watching my King be murdered right before me, unable to lend aid, I watched at the Maester dismounted the lifeless body and begin to approach me. I tried to sit up, but once again, his staff cast a blow against me, and this time, I heard my ribs break.

“It is finished! I claim victory in the name of King Deamon!” And with a wicked grin, he stood over me and drove his staff down. I cried out, but blackness overtook me.

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