A Spoiled Rule

Chapter 1

Since its very start, the day had brought discomfort. It began as a brilliantly bright morning, golden light wrapping the marble walls of the palace and nourishing its gardens. The mornings always cleared his head. He sent his advisors away to allow privacy while he thought. His royal spokesman was away surveying the kingdom, leaving him alone on his throne.
The king knew he was never truly alone. His personal guards were always lurking nearby, between marble pillars and behind closed doors. He would forbid every one of them from entering the palace if it weren't for William. In similarity, the spokesman, according to the king, was not unlike William, but he was too loud. That is, the king supposed that all spokesmen should be loud.
The royal entrance doors burst open, causing the king to jump. The intruder was the very spokesman, though the man wasn't due for another two hours. In fact, his appearance was disheveled and unfit to speak in front of the king. The man's eyes were wide with fright beneath his sweaty, unruly hair. The king had only seen such fear when his father ruled, during the heights of the Dínam War.
"Your Majesty, I ask that you forgive my appearance," he announced, his breaths heavy.
"Granted," replied the king. "But what is the meaning of your appearance? You are not yet due for another two hours."
"I humbly beg your forgiveness," said the spokesman. "But it is the kingdom, Sire, the-"
"Is it the Dínes?" the king asked, unable to contain himself.
The spokesman shook his head. "No, Your Highness, it is-"
The door behind the king's chair burst open. The king, together frightened and frustrated, stood abruptly from his throne. "Why do people insist on slamming doors?"
"Your Highness," said a tall man with a strong build. It was the captain of the royal guard. "Forgive my intrusion, but this matter cannot wait. Protocol Ninety-Three has been activated."
The king's mouth became dry. His knees were suddenly weak, threatening to give way under the weight of his garments. He clutched the arm of his throne in disbelief. Dismiss the Dínes. Protocol 93 would destroy them all. "If you are mistaken, little mercy will be spared," warned the king quietly. The palace was eerily still.
"There is no mistake," said the captain. "Chroal has been struck. With respect, we must bring you to safety before it reaches Harksgold."
The king slumped down onto his throne. He no longer worried about the appeal of splendor. His spokesman was disheveled, so why should he not be disheveled with him? "There is no place to go," the king said quietly. He often wondered how defeat would strike. He thought it would come not before excitement, adrenaline, battle, death. But this defeat was sudden, and sapped all honor and fight from the king. He had wondered too little of this sort of defeat.
"Dínam," said the spokesman.
The captain turned on him. "Don't say such a wretched idea in front of The Highness," he spat.
If the king were about to meet defeat, he would do so on his own terms. "We will not go to Dínam," said the king. "William, gather all whom you are able and hurry to the private collectors." He said this to the captain, but more to separate the captain from the spokesman, for it appeared as though they were going to brawl.
William hesitated, a thing he rarely did. "Your Highness, I cannot go without you-"
"You shall, William," said the king. Distant bells began to sound, and screams erupted nearby. It was moving fast. "Now!"
William left through a side door engraved with gold. The poor spokesman was trembling before the king.
"Which part of Chroal has Protocol Ninety-Three been activated?" asked the king.
"Y-Your Majesty, it would have spread-"
"Which part?" interrupted the king.
"The North-Western section, Your Highness," replied the spokesman.
"That is reasonable," muttered the king. "Leave to the collectors. Inform William that I will not be accepting his revision of Protocol Ninety-Three and will carry out the duties burdened to my name under the original copy."
The spokesman did not argue. He ran on his toes through the side door, leaving the king in silence.
A ferocious pounding sounded suddenly at the royal doors. The king was not accustomed to the absence of his guards, and hesitated. Surely the people would not have moved so fast... But the king had never dealt with Protocol 93 before. He had to remain open-minded.
The king attempted to prepare himself as he neared the doors. They were securely locked with golden latches, but he needed to open them according to the protocol. So, he placed his hands on the tall doors and released them from their locks.
Immediately, the king was swarmed with hundreds of citizens. They ran around him into the safety of the palace hall, though they didn't dare to explore further without permission. There were many mothers with their young ones, and many men accompanied them. The elders were not at the door, and though expected, that small detail dropped the king's heart. But his sadness was quickly replaced with horror as he saw them: Filthy and mad, men and women, elderly and young, were running straight for him. Their eyes were heavily glazed, foam bubbled at their blue lips, and the women's dresses were torn from the strain of running. The king pulled with all of his might at the heavy doors, which slowly swung in with a loud bang that echoed above the frantic people's cries.
Chaos ensued. The citizens did not want to roam the palace. They were unsure of what was allowed, for the king had not granted them the right to do anything. So they stood in the grand hall, screaming and crying. Babies wailed in their mother's embrace. Men shouted at one another. Voices echoed off the marble pillars lining the hall; off of the marble walls and polished floors. The king had to take control. His people needed him.
"My people, hear me!" he yelled. Only those nearest quieted while the rest pursued in their chaotic frenzy. The king met the eyes of a young woman, braids undone, face smudged with dirt. She was a commoner; one of the king's more favorable people to converse with. He took her hand with the utmost respect. "My lady," he said quietly so only she could hear. Her hands were bony and shaking, but her eyes were steady. "I understand the severity of the situation and the urgency to calm the people, yet so long as your fellow citizens continue to invoke chaos in the palace, I will be of no use to anyone, and we all shall die at the hands of the corpses you have just run from."
The woman, nervous under the king's direction, took a shaky breath and turned. She cupped her frail hands around her mouth and yelled.
The king realized his spokesman was very quiet compared to the woman. Her voice pierced through the air, loud above all. The king himself was nearly frightened.
When the people quieted, all attention was directed toward their king. It had been a while since he'd spoken in front of them on any occasion. He stood tall and cleared his throat. "People of Harksgold, I know we all are a bit... antsy, but chaos will continue to ensue if we fail to discuss the situation."
There was a bang at the royal doors.
"As in accordance with Protocol Ninety-Three, Chroal is being torched," continued the king. "I'm certain you all understand, for it is to slow the spread of the disease."
"What about other citizens?" cried a woman.
"My guards are currently on watch for those, alive, who appear to be advancing toward the palace," said the king. "We have full collectors here, and we will-"
Another bang.
"-go about that in an organized fashion."
Bang. Someone coughed.
There was a short, stubby commoner who held a considerable amount of space between him and those around.
"The collectors lie through those doors," said the king as a guard passed through them. "Follow the guard; he will take you there."
"What about you?" asked the loud woman. People were shuffling past, raising their voices over the banging at the door.
"I will be securing the palace and will see to it that you all are safe," he said, smiling for the woman. She smiled back and followed the crowd through the doors.
The king did not wait for the hall to empty. He gently swerved through the commoners until he reached the door behind his throne; the one through which William had entered. He pushed through the heavy door and suddenly, silence pressed on his ears. He did not allow the silence to perturb him, however. He had entered a smaller hall in which portraits hung above rich, dark red carpet. The portraits depicted the young king's mother and father, and those who came before them. He glimpsed his father's white beard and mother's lush, curly dark hair as he hurried down the hall. He was running late. He pushed through the door at the end of the hall and entered a circular space with a marble floor and a royal staircase which split at the top. A diamond chandelier overhead glimmered peacefully. All that could be heard was the king's footsteps as he skipped up the stairs. Never had the palace been so quiet.
After reaching the top of the stairs, the king entered a vast hallway to his left. He hurried to the end, past diplomatic portraits and golden lights, stopping at the white door at the end of the hall. He could hear distinguished voices on the other side. The king sensed his guards were near.
The king had always been weary of his advisors. They knew better than he and held more knowledge than he. The king may rule Harksgold, but he does not guide it; not really. His advisors could devise a coup beneath his nose without his knowing. But he needed them, for they advised him on matters where he was not an expert. Yet, he wondered, how could they advise him, or he they, when all were facing a subject none was an expert in but the protocol?
The king pushed through the door, and immediately, the voices ceased. His four advisors were sitting at a round table, staring at the king as if he had interrupted them.
"Protocol Ninety-Three requires your presence with the head of the royal guard, and I believe that would be William," said the king. "All four of you were needed in the grand hall, yet I found myself alone, having to speak to the people to calm them."
"Your Majesty," said a round man with stubble on his chin. It was Charles, who advised the king on matters relating to internal and foreign relations. "We were unsuccessful in making it through the crowd."
The king noticed a heavy bundle of papers on the table. "I believe I had that copy destroyed. Do you disagree?" he said, looking at the revision of Protocol 93 with distaste. "In what way do you plan on going about that version when the people are already inside?"
The four advisors exchanged nervous glances.
"Your Highness, we feel it would be wise for you-for Harksgold-if the people were... outside," said a slim man with thinning hair. It was Rudin, the king's advisor on safety institutions.
"It was no safer for Chroal," said the king.
"Chroal was bound to fall first, whether the people were with us or without," said Charles.
"Do you wish of me to ask the people to leave?" the king said with a frustrated grimace.
"If you go about it with urgency, they shall," said Rudin.
"Perhaps we ought to invest in Section Nine of Protocol Ninety-Three-"
"Do not mention that in my presence," warned the king. The man who had spoken was Oliver, the king's advisor on law and proclamations.
"Why don't we wait?" spoke the fourth advisor, Henry, who was the king's advisor on finances.
"Well, why don't we all wait with the people?" said the king. "That is where we should be."
All of them agreed. The king watched, struggling to keep his head up, as his four advisors left the room. When they did, the king let his head fall. That was not a productive conversation. How had he ever been expected to rule over Harksgold when he couldn't rule over his advisors?
There was a clattering from the other room. It came from the door to the king's right. The room he was currently standing in was a discussion room, joined with a minor kitchen space meant only for small plates while ideas were being spoken. No chef should be inside the kitchen, as Protocol 93 placed the chefs outside the palace with other necessary guards to collect food. Perhaps the king needed to encourage an afraid soul.
He pushed through the heavy door. Inside this room was a long metallic table with pots and spoons hanging from the ceiling. The tiled floor was shiny, waiting for cooking to begin and for scraps to fall. Four large ovens sat to the king's left, and another thin wooden table sat to his right, meant for preparation. The king rarely ventured into the kitchens, let alone this one. There was no need. But as the king stood there, he heard the clatter again. It had come from the other side of the kitchen, seemingly beneath the long metallic table. Surely none was hiding from the king. That'd be absurd and disrespectful.
"Who's there?" said the king abruptly. He could feel his guards standing nearby, possibly behind him in the other room.
Someone stirred behind the metal table. The king saw a man with wiry gray hair and filthy skin stand nervously. His entire being was shaking. It was a commoner. Could he have come from Chroal?
"There is no food here," said the king. "What is your name?"
"Gregory," said the man in a raspy voice. He was suddenly overcome by a series of coughs that shook his entire body. The king could hear the man struggle for breath, his lungs filled with mucus and saliva, possibly even some blood.
"You should see one of the doctors here in the palace," frowned the king. In the back of his mind, a voice was shouting, reminding him of Protocol 93, but action was yet uncalled for. He shall treat this Chroalinian as one of Harksgold. "Why don't I show you to the collectors? There will be food and aid there."
Gregory shook his head. "I cannot go there, where everyone else is."
"Why not?" asked the king.
"Because I cannot bear to see all those who live and ponder on those who do not... My family."
The king saddened. He knew those from Chroal would suffer the most. "I offer my condolences. Perhaps I can find some food for-"
The king stopped, for suddenly, Gregory collapsed on the kitchen tiles. The king shouted for his guards, and immediately, four of them were at his side. "Get Doctor Hummings," ordered the king, and one guard disappeared.
"Forgive me," said a guard whose name was unknown to the king, "but perhaps we should get you someplace safe."
The king instantly knew what the guard was implying, and he did not appreciate it. The king took a few steps toward the fallen commoner and knelt down. Gregory was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and a stream of blood flowed from his nose and mouth. "There is no evidence of this man turning," said the king, sensing the guards' tension. "Not yet."
Doctor Hummings, a young man with curly brown hair and soft eyes, entered the room. He was shorter than the guard who had collected him. His complexion paled at the sight of the king kneeling on the floor. "What happened?" he hissed at the guards.
Doctor Hummings was a man of honor, unafraid to speak his mind. He reminded the king a bit of William. But Hummings did not have a fight in him. Hummings was naive when it came to areas that William was an expert in, yet William as well when it came to areas that Hummings was an expert in.
The king had only encountered Hummings' father before, and then, the king was just a boy. Yet he was remembered as strong but tender, with intellect he did not boast of but which the late king did.
The last time the king saw the man was on the day the late king died.
"My King, are you alright?" asked Hummings, kneeling beside him.
"I am not the reason of your presence," said the king. "I discovered this man hiding here in the kitchen, and he collapsed and is now unable to wake."
Hummings pulled out a pair of gloves which he always carried on his person. He checked Gregory's pulse, then lifted Gregory's eyelid. "There is blood pooling beneath the man's eyelids," reported Hummings. "But his heartbeat remains strong. There must be an internal injury for his own blood to be leaking from his nose and mouth. Perhaps..." His voice trailed as he gathered the thin clothes which Gregory wore and his dirty appearance. "Perhaps it is the plague."
"Unless he were the first victim here, I'd say otherwise," said the king. "I know less of this than you, but I feel if it were the plague, then there would be others here like him."
"Yes, well... Perhaps it is a simple disease," said Hummings. "Many like this lurk in Chroal."
"Perhaps," agreed the king. "Is there anything you can do for him?"
"That would require an examination in the medical hall," said Hummings. He stood to his feet. "Forgive me for returning to the matter, but it could still be the plague," Hummings said in a quiet tone. "Those in Chroal are dead, yes, but... Perhaps this man was able to hold on long enough to arrive here."
"And none else were able to survive as long as he?" The king shook his head. "Those younger and stronger than he have died in Chroal today."
"Very well," said Hummings. "You heard our King; take this man to the medical hall."