Four of a Kind
"When you play a game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground." - George R.R. Martin
The air was thick with incense and body heat—there were too many panicked men packed around the king's bed. One of the servants stood off to the side, waving a giant fan in order to stir some of the air and cool everyone off. It wasn't working. Not that it mattered. There were more important things to be concerned with.
The king was dying. He had fallen sick shortly after returning from his campaign overseas and none of the traveling physicians saw to his well-being on the voyage back. He looked so tired and sick. He could barely keep his eyes open. Every time his body racked with a wet cough, the priest muttered a few words and spread more of the incense.
Herakles wished he wouldn't. It only made things worse for their beloved king.
He even thought to suggest it to the priest, but he had been anchored to his post at the head of the bed by the king himself. Every time Herakles moved even in the slightest, the king's hand pulled gently on his fingers as he groaned tiredly. Don't go, he could almost hear his king saying. Don't leave me, Herakles. The exhaustion in his lord's eyes made him stay put, and he answered with a reassuring nod. After all, he was a lowly bard—a peasant in the king's house—and he was bound to his lord's bidding.
The other men muttered amongst themselves, their voices hushed and worried. The king's generals stood in the front of the crowd of men, squabbling. They sounded a little like chickens, sometimes—only in the way they debated over the future of the kingdom. Perhaps more like vultures, then, Herakles thought dryly, squabbling over a man's deathbed.
"Did he name an heir?" whispered one of the louder generals. Herakles had seen him very often at court. He never went anywhere without the glittering axe at his side, and he always had to be talking to someone. Francis, Herakles placed in his mind. He watched him carefully as he snaked through the crowd to meet with his fellow generals.
The tall one he stood next to, Ludwig, simply shook his head without saying a word. Francis continued, hungry for conversation, "What will happen if he passes, heaven forbid?"
"Then we will meet and find a solution, Francis," Ludwig hissed in response. His stern, blue eyes never left the king's body. Herakles felt a chill run down his spine.
The king coughed again, louder this time, and the priest muttered more chants. Herakles said nothing, and instead placed another hand on top of the king's. His subtle action was met with a tired, but smug smile.
After a few long, painful minutes, the king rasped, "I…"
The crowd jumped at the sound of their king making any kind of sound that wasn't coughing or wheezing. The generals, of course, were the most eager to hear what the man had to say. Ludwig leaned in closer and looked the king in the eyes, "Yes, Majesty?" The men waited around the deathbed for something—anything—that would guide them in the right direction. However, the king fell back into his shallow, sickly breaths and closed his eyes again.
One of the other generals, the youngest of the four of them, sighed with worry, "This is terrible…" Herakles furrowed his eyebrows. He sounded like such a child. He was still unsure how a man so young and so fresh to the battlefield acquired a general's title, but he evidently deserved it, for the king appointed the young man himself. The young man continued, even when no one replied to him, "Doesn't the king have some sort of… will? A document, a decree—something that can tell us who will take his place?"
"Surely if we had that, Alfred," Francis laughed humorlessly, "We wouldn't be so worried, would we?"
Alfred glared at the back of Francis' head. Herakles waited for the last of the generals to say something in the conversation, but he simply stood there, looming over his fellows. The silence weighed heavily on everyone—the incense made it worse.
Minutes passed like hours, and the king hardly made progress. He tried to choke out a few messages to his men, but every time he managed to rasp something, someone would falsely interpret it—especially as time wore on. Some of the court members claimed he said, "To the strongest," or "To my favorite." General Francis even claimed that he had said, "To Francis!" No one believed him.
At long last, the king finally managed to speak a complete sentence. His dry mouth opened, and the men leaned in to listen.
"I… I'm ready."
Those were the last words the king spoke before he finally passed into Paradise. Herakles squeezed his lord's hand, feeling it go cold and limp in his own. One of the court officials reached over and closed the king's eyelids, whispering some commemoration as he did so.
Just like that, the world had lost a hero to the histories.
"Long live the king," whispered the priest.
"Long live the king," echoed the room. "Long live King Antiqua."
As the priest cleaned and tidied the king's corpse, Herakles looked on with sad eyes. He was already composing an epic in his honor, as he would have wanted. His name would live on in the tales, even if his kingdom did not.
In the matter of the successor to the kingdom, Ludwig was quick to begin negotiations. He straightened to his full height, which was taller than most of the men in the room, and met the crowd with his steely gaze, "The generals will meet and discuss the future of the kingdom." He didn't have to say it twice: the room began to clear out, slowly.
When Herakles straightened and began to walk toward the door, however, Ludwig placed a large hand on his shoulder, "Stay, bard. I would have a witness document the exchanges made between the generals. Can you write?"
"Yes," answered Herakles.
"Good," said Ludwig. He was very efficient. "Please, sit."
Herakles did as he was told. Other than him, only the generals and one court official remained. The bard surveyed the room and made sure to refresh the names of the generals in his mind.
Ludwig stood in front, his hands clasped behind his back. He was so stout and noble—yes, he had the makings of a diligent ruler. He was a natural with a blade, and his armies deeply respected him for his punctuality and strictness in training. He hardly ever smiled, and he usually kept his conversations to a minimum. It was no wonder that he was the one to organize such a meeting among the generals.
Francis stood closest to him—he commanded the attention of anyone in the room due to his fanciful regalia and warm, charming personality. Perhaps not as stout and intimidating as Ludwig, Francis had all the silver-tongued charm that a ruler should have. Out of the four, he had the best command over rhetoric and the law, and no one liked getting into an argument with him because of it. He stroked his short beard—a habit of his when concocting a winning argument, or a decisive insult.
Two men stood next to Francis: Alfred was the taller, younger one, and his trusted confidant Arthur was the other. Technically speaking, Arthur was no general, and therefore had no business attending the meeting, but everyone knew that Alfred never went anywhere without the man. Herakles hid a smile as he watched the younger man gravitate naturally toward Arthur, like a lost puppy would to its master. He was young for a general, but his men vowed that he was the bravest in battle—a master of war strategy. Often outnumbered, Alfred's tactics won many a battle for the late King Antiqua.
Finally, the last general stood furthest away from them all. He hadn't moved or said a word since the king was brought to his deathbed. Herakles knew him the least, but he knew that his name was Ivan. He was the tallest man at court, and he was easy to spot in a battle. He smiled sometimes, but the smile never reached his eyes. He seemed a difficult man to read. Herakles felt a chill, only looking at him.
"What's going to happen to the kingdom?" Alfred asked, breaking the quiet. "We can't rule it."
"Oh, can't we?" Francis chimed, rounding on the young general. "Who else will, hm?"
"Oh, stop, Francis," Arthur snapped. The joking smile disappeared from Francis' face. "You know what Alfred meant. You can't exactly joint rule the kingdom. We need a system."
Ludwig crossed the room and grabbed the map from the wall. He placed it on the low, oak table in the middle of the room and waved the other men over. Herakles stayed where he was—just close enough to hear everything the men said and see what they discussed on the map. Ludwig smoothed a hand over the face of the parchment as he cleared his throat. He surely began every war council meeting this way.
"I think you all know what we must do," he told them gravely.
"You mean to split the kingdom, then?" asked Ivan. It was the first time Herakles had heard the man speak. His voice was different than he had expected. "And the four of us will each rule a province?"
The thought hit Herakles like a boulder. Cutting apart the kingdom? It was like cutting apart their late king and distributing his body parts to different people. The bard said nothing and kept his sorrow to himself. He missed his king already.
"That sounds fair," began Francis as he leaned on the table. "As long as appropriate shares go to each of us." His blue eyes glittered as his gaze passed over the youngest general. The contempt the men had for each other was well-known to the court. They often did little to hide it. Alfred glared and crossed his arms over his chest.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What I think Francis means," Ludwig cut in, glaring at them both, "Is that we all should have an equal share. For now, no one province will be larger than the others."
The rest of the room went eerily quiet at his words—for now.
Carefully, Ludwig drew on the map with the quill on the table, sectioning out the kingdom into four roughly equal provinces. Once he had them drawn out, the generals immediately began squabbling over them, trying to decide who should receive what province. Herakles could barely keep up with them, and after a few minutes, he decided to abandon his note-taking until they came to a resolution.
"Enough!" Ludwig bellowed. His voice boomed over the clamor and the room immediately went quiet again. "We can't get anywhere if we don't stop bickering."
After a pause, Francis chimed in next, "I have an idea." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim deck of cards that he was often found playing with. Arthur's face immediately twisted with confusion when he saw the cards.
"We are not playing cards for a province!" he argued firmly. Alfred nodded approvingly, like Arthur had stolen the words from his own mouth. Francis snorted and began rifling through the deck.
"As amusing as that would be, Arthur, that isn't what I had in mind."
Francis pulled the four kings from the deck, laying them flat on the table. He then reached for the abandoned quill and he drew a symbol on each province of the map: a spade in the East province, a diamond in the South, a heart to the West, and finally, a clover in the North. Each symbol matched one of the kings from the deck.
Ahh—the table said with realization.
"Now, we'll each draw our lot," said Francis. Then he added, snidely, "Fairly."
Ludwig was first. He reached onto the table and plucked his card off of the table with confidence. He looked at it and nodded firmly, "Heart."
Ivan went next. The tall man stooped down and picked his card after thinking for a moment. "Clover," he said, with a small smile.
Alfred whispered something to Arthur, who pointed to one of the remaining cards on the table. His eyebrows knit as he thought about his retainer's choice, but then he nodded, as if he had planned on choosing it anyway. He lifted the card and said with earnest, "Spade!"
"Which leaves me with Diamond," said Francis, pulling his card from the table. "Fitting, no?"
The generals were quiet for a few moments, looking at each other. Almost immediately, the tone of the room changed. Peaceful negotiations suddenly shifted to suspicious hostility—it was almost like they knew what was going to happen in the time to come.
"This will last only until we find a new High King, yes?" he asked the group.
"Yes," the group echoed.
"Hopefully it will be sooner, rather than later," Ludwig finished, almost nervously.
After another brief pause, Francis broke the silence, as usual, "Well, men. I believe we have an announcement to make to the people, don't we?"
Herakles' eyes darted between the men swiftly, trying to gauge their reactions. They all looked eager to leave the room and put their plan into action. His eyes lingered on the cards on the table—though they hadn't played for provinces, he couldn't help but think of the entire ordeal as a game. Surely it would descend into that, Herakles thought. There was no helping it.
The game started when Francis pulled the deck of cards from his pocket, and the game was who would become High King. Of that, they were all certain.
What wasn't certain was who would win.