The Noble Mr. Prickles
By Ardy
Copyright 2012
CHAPTER ONE
Everybody in the Kingdom of Dargod knew that their once wise and powerful king was losing his mind. Few dared to say it, though. Everyone still called him King Orvan the Wise and Powerful, at least publicly. Behind closed doors he was referred to by some as King Orvan the Moron, King Orvan the Man with the Intelligence of a Demented Goat, or simply "that old fool."
So far, Orvan's mental degradation had not seriously harmed the Kingdom in any way except embarrassment. When he ordered a holiday in honor of his pet dog Burgy nobody complained. When he promoted Burgy to his panel of advisors and held barking conversations with the mutt in the presence of foreign dignitaries, people began to wonder about his sanity. That was the first indication for most that something was wrong with Orvan. After that he ordered the military uniform to be replaced with pink tunics and frilly yellow pants. Dargod's warriors were still the most vicious in the known world, a fact that kept most other kingdoms from ridiculing their new attire, but the soldiers who had previously paraded proudly through the Kingdom had remained out of sight in their fortresses and barracks.
If I were to tell you about all of the king's eccentricities, I would never get around to the story. I could describe the way he had the shrubs at the palace trimmed to look like overweight chickens, or his request that the theater in the city of Radil produce a three hour musical glorifying banana pudding (a rather entertaining play, I might add), or any of the other insane things he had done. But it was common knowledge to half the world that Orvan the Wise and Powerful was now a man who wore a crown made of turkey bones and insisted on calling everyone "Bucky."
There was much speculation about how Orvan got that way. Some said that he had been cursed or poisoned by an enemy (he did have a lot of them) or that he had taken to eating the mushrooms that grew in the palace courtyard. Some said that it was dementia brought on by old age, but King Orvan was barely fifty. No one could ask him if something had happened to him because he insisted that he was not crazy. "One day," he said, "history will look back on me as the wisest king who ever lived!" As a writer of history, let me tell you that had it not been for the events I am about to transcribe, that would most certainly not have been the case.
In light of Orvan's growing insanity there was much wonder about the special mission he had announced. He was going to select his greatest warrior for what he called a glorious quest. Most of his warriors did not want to go on a mission that, if recent history was any indication, would probably involve silky pants, banana pudding, and hunting down an elusive singing dung beetle who held the secret of life. Many good men were lost on that noble mission, and many others just never came back to Dargod, hoping to find a king who was less likely to send them to war with the elves at the advice of Burgy.
The warrior that Orvan chose for this special mission was a man named Javan who was actually one of the greatest warriors in the history of Dargod. Javan was told to meet the king "in the courtyard of the palace at 2:30 in the morning on the second Wednesday of the third month on the ninth year after the fourth anniversary of the birth of Burgy." It took poor Javan a few days of investigation and calculation to realize that Orvan had meant that Wednesday and he was almost late getting there. Javan was also told to bring his three best warriors with him, but they were to wait outside the palace gate while Javan was given the mission.
Javan was a fierce warrior and a former soldier who had fought beside Orvan when the king really had been wise and powerful and had retired just before the uniform change. When he had met Orvan, Javan was just twenty years old and Orvan was thirty. For ten years they fought side by side and had grown closer than brothers. Then, on his fortieth birthday, Orvan became king of Dargod and for the next five years Javan was his top general. Five years later Javan chose to retire, mostly because Dargod was at peace and there were no wars to fight. But Javan had sworn a blood oath to his friend and king that should he ever be needed again, he would be ready to lay his life on the line for Orvan.
As he left his three best warriors at the palace gate and went towards the courtyard, he questioned the wisdom of making that vow. It had been five years and Javan had opened a military academy that trained soldiers who would graduate only to wear pink shirts and hide shamefacedly in their barracks until called by Orvan the King who Bathed in Goat Milk to defend the honor of Burgy against a rogue water buffalo (though the man who vanquished that buffalo did receive a medal). Five years ago Orvan was a good king. Five years ago Javan had sworn a blood oath to defend and obey him. Now, Orvan was a lunatic and Javan's blood oath may end up costing him and his three best warriors their pride at best, and at worst, their lives.
There was a fountain in the courtyard and Orvan sat on its edge with his back to the water wearing his turkey bone crown and a red and blue loin cloth. At his feet slept the infamous Burgy, whose idea this mission no doubt had been. Next to the king on the fountain's edge sat a large chimpanzee wearing the pink and yellow uniform of Dargod's once noble army. The chimp had a dagger on his belt and a banana in his hand. The chimp grinned at Javan as he approached and Burgy woke up and bounded over to him barking happily. Javan had known Burgy back when he was a puppy and Orvan was sane. How he longed for those days again.
Javan went to Orvan and bowed to the ground in a reverence that, despite his doubts, he still felt.
"My lord," he said.
"Ah, Bucky," King Orvan said. "Stand up! Let me look at you!"
Javan stood. Orvan looked him over and smiled.
"It's been a long time, Bucky," Orvan said.
"It has, my lord."
"What's all this 'my lord' business, Bucky?" Orvan asked. "We're friends, are we not?"
"Yes," Javan said, unsure if this lunatic sitting before him was the same man who had been his friend.
"You got my message," Orvan said. "Good. You must leave this evening! This is perhaps the most important mission I have ever sent anyone on! Except, or course, for the dung beetle. That didn't turn out the way that I had expected. The poor thing was about to tell me the secret of life when Burgy ate him!" The king turned to the dog, his most trusted advisor, and scolded, "Bad dog, Burgy!"
Burgy whined. The chimp grinned, squealed, and threw the mushy remains of his banana at the dog.
"But now," the king continued, "I have a mission for you, Bucky. Burgy recommended you specifically. I trust you've selected your three best warriors?"
"I have, Orvan," Javan said, wondering what he was getting them into.
"Excellent!" Orvan said. "What I want you to do is to go to the Kingdom of the Northern Giants and bring me back a petal from a rare orange rose that grows in the throne room of Donovan the Giant King."
This didn't sound that eccentric, though it was basically suicide. The Northern Giants were huge, most over seventy-five feet tall, and though they rarely invaded other kingdoms, which would have been disastrous, they hated any intruders, especially "human vermin" like Javan. To walk into the throne room of the Giant King meant certain death. If Javan had not sworn a blood oath, he would have declined. As it was, he was going to release his three warriors from the task. They shouldn't die for his foolish promise to a crazy king. He would bring back the orange rose petal or die trying. He owed his old friend that much.
"Yes, Orvan," Javan said.
"Be back here in one month," Orvan said. "Burgy says that we need that petal by then or my whole kingdom will be destroyed by angry fairies!"
Javan cringed. "Yes, Orvan."
"Oh, and Bucky," Orvan said, "one more thing…”