SAMPLE Chapter 7: The Uncrowned King

BRIEF INTRODUCTION: This chapter follows an important event that took place over three centuries before the main story, and links in closely with the arc of one of my main characters. I've picked it because it requires no understanding of the background and is about half the length of every other chapter, making it a quick read.
I reiterate, this takes place way before the main story, so there are no spoilers or anything of the sort, and it shouldn't act as a vessel for learning about my main characters.

Hope you enjoy!

The Uncrowned King

He didn’t know if he could hold on for much longer. It was an endless battle, an endless struggle of heart and mind, between duty to his people and duty to his King. He had sworn to follow his liege’s orders, but those orders were so often to exterminate his foes, rip harvests from the peasants, and press taxes out of those who couldn’t even afford a loaf of bread. His brother was out of control, and yet what could he do? It's him and I, the last of Rhickall’s line. I have to stand by his side, until either of us have a son, or daughter, at this rate. His wife was indeed pregnant, but she had been threatened by his brother several times, and Faran was unsure whether she would survive long enough to bear a son. But it was Wylim’s fault that they were the last of the Rhickallis regardless - a few years ago Wylim had their nephew, their King, smothered in his sleep. Faran had tried to stop him, he tried to usher the boy out of the city, but Wylim drew his sword, and told him to acquiesce, or die. He obliged, and the realm bled. Five houses destroyed, thousands of peasants killed by the King’s own men, and tens of thousands more dead and dying from endless epidemics. This year lockthroat was making its rounds, and this year again His Grace did nothing.

Faran knew the lords were scheming, he knew they planned to place him on the throne, and yet he couldn’t act against his brother. Why would I? This throne is cursed; since our ancestor left us we’ve had one benevolent ruler. One. It drives insanity in a man’s heart. I could swear the crown is haunted by some dark force. It seemed like every month when Cyneric, Baron of Eurann, would come to his chambers, begging him to act against his brother. ‘You’re the only man I can trust, Faran.’ he remembered him saying, rendering his life unto him. He remembered also the screams of that man as he was flayed in his King’s own hall, his entrails baked into a pie and sent back to his city. There had been vicious rulers, and mad rulers, but his brother was both, and yet still he did nothing. That young baroness, who he couldn’t even remember the name of, had come before Wylim one day, asking that he would lessen the taxes on her villages. ‘Half the men have taken to banditry, and half the women to prostitution. Please, Your Grace, let them live a normal life.’ he remembered her pleading. Once she was finished Wylim stepped down from his throne, struck her, and sent her to the dungeons to rot. And she was one of the lucky ones.

Faran still did nothing. He stood by his brother’s side now, trying to convince himself he wasn’t truly there, up upon the High Balcony, overlooking the entire Citadel, the whole population, who he had forcibly gathered, desiring to give a grand speech to them. I dread to think what he has to say.

“My people, my flock!” he yelled, raising his arms to the sky. “I have gathered you here to-day, to bring you joyous news!”

The people stood motionless, their gaunt faces pointed to the ground, fearful of even looking into their King’s eyes.

“From this day, until the last day, I shall be your God! Forget the Forest, forget all that you once worshipped, I am your only God! Bow before me!” he proclaimed. Fucking hell, he’s finally gone mentally insane.

The people bowed, holding the position as if their lives depended on it. I suppose in this case, it does, thought Faran as he saw those he dared to stand still ushered away by the city’s guards, encouraging the others to bend their backs before they were broken by the hammers of the Kingsguard, which were introduced by Wylim, of course.

“My first decree, as God-King, is to bring iron and blood to all my enemies! From this day, until the last day, all those who conspire against me shall be killed!” As if that wasn’t the case before.

Wylim clenched his hands into fists, and turned around. “Starting with my traitorous brother, Faran.” he proclaimed, smirking as he gestured for the guards to come and arrest him. No! No! He can’t! I did nothing, I’ve always done nothing!

He saw the guards closing in, saw the murderous eyes of his brother, and pushed.

The King’s face turned to shock, and he tumbled backward, and over the edge, plummeting down to the ground. The deathly quiet city heard their King’s corpse crash against the ground, and cheered. Many guards running from the scene, Faran watched the scenes below unfold. The peasants ripped the King’s entrails from his corpse - his own method of execution, and began parading them through the square, while mobs quickly broke out and overwhelmed the Kingsguard, as the soldiers either stood their ground and died, or fled, rocks slamming into their backs as they stumbled through the streets. The whole city descended into chaos, the King’s entrails now being hung upon the walls as the mobs battered against the doors to the keep. Since he was now their King, the few guards alive had quickly ran to Faran’s protection as he continued to stand motionless on the balcony, watching as the mob finally smashed through, carrying the crown of Mourne, with its single emerald still gleaming in the sunlight.

The guards were quickly overrun, skulls caving in to the blows of heavy stones, and the mob finally reached Faran on the balcony. One starved man knelt before him, offering the crown, the rest of them standing behind him in anticipation. “Our King!” they yelled. “Our King!” I am no true King. I did nothing, while the realm bled.

Faran took the crown nonetheless, and was carried to the throne, sat down, and given Rhickall’s hammer, the weapon of the Kings of Mourne. “Our King!” they chanted as they waited for him to put the crown on his head.

Faran stood up and placed the crown on the throne, the crowd silently confused as he picked up the hammer. “I am no King.” he confessed, swinging the hammer against the crown with all his might. It shattered, and death smiled.

The crown was indeed cursed, full of power that no man should hold. It was the very source upon which the Citadel fed, Faran would learn, much to his dismay. The people quickly became sick, and Faran was left slumped on the throne, hammer in hand, as the realm descended into brutal war around him. He felt as if he was neither alive, nor dead - the only man left in the city. No one came to save him, and for good reason: all the proud Citadel was now was the capital of death, home to millions of corpses, piled atop each other behind the unbreakable gates, the sick and starved people not strong enough to open them.

It was a fate worse than death. Oh gods, why won’t you let me die? It must’ve been centuries, surely, and yet he was still a corpse-king, spirit almost split from body, and yet somewhat alive, with no one to see him suffer or hear him weep.

And yet, with all hope seemingly lost, he saw light break in from the shadows.