Till the Trumpets Blow

Three Knocks

The throne shimmers in the sunrise. Its corners are jagged and unpolished, but natural in their beauty. Mere sightings of the chair would entice one to bow before any who took upon its misshapen seat.

The armrest reflected a pale face looking outwards through the castle from his perch atop this throne. His body was unable to function; it withered away with each tiring action as if made of ashes. One of his eyes had already blown away with the wind, and his hands and fingers looked as though they were on their last legs.

The king readjusted his position, taking in the scenery around him.

Large banners inscribed with dubious writings were hung from every rafter in sight. The bricks were rotted through, and the ceiling looked as though it could collapse at any given second.

The king looked up as gravel eroded from above. Every aspect of his castle seemed dull in comparison to his throne.

He had never left his spot since the day he was bound to it by the estranged warlock of his old town. The caster had promised vast wealth and power during his monarchy with one simple spell. The new and the ignorant king took his offer, and the warlock, abiding by his promise, gave the king trumpeters able to conquer any kingdom he wished with their deadly symphony.

However, as the weeks went on, the king noticed difficulties completing his life tasks. It was as if his entire body began to decay. As each month passed, he felt his condition worsen immensely. After a year, the king's body was only a hollow imprint of his former glory. There had to be a reason for this illness.

The King decided to contact the warlock once more and finally learned his fate.

The spell had been a curse. Each time the trumpets were used, he would grow more dependent on the warlock's magic. The Warlock, however, gave the King a helpful "gift": a glass throne meant to siphon the magic from the King and relieve the warlock, while at the same time keeping the King's body in stasis, undying.

The King was sick of reminiscing. Just imagining the sight of that damn magician was enough to boil his blood, but he had no energy for anger anymore. Although he was immortal in his current state, being removed from the throne for even a moment would end his reign.

Just as the poor ruler pondered his existence, his most honorable servant entered his chambers. He was clad in gray overalls and chainmail leggings over his shabby pants. Upon his head rested a lanky hat seen more commonly in orchestras.

"The traitors have been dealt with, my liege." He dared not speak poorly to his master, else he would be cast to the pits, like the rest of them.

"You need not worry about any other defectors; the men you have left have been loyal since Elindaunce," He swallowed the spit in his throat, regretting using those blasted powers received from the same warlock. He'd been granted the ability to speak to others through their minds. A useful tool to the King, but not useful enough to even consider beating his puppeteers.

The King didn't respond to him, only averting his eyes somewhere else.

A horrific scream blared from the barracks as if someone had just lost their mind.

The soldier rushed into the king's quarters wielding a dagger, charging toward the throne.

There was enough time for the Conductor to react, but did he desire to? Would his problems be erased if this mad man finished off the demented king's reign? His eyes darted across the room in his panic, mistakenly glaring deep into the shining glass of the throne.

Deceived by the throne, the Conductor threw himself forward, letting the knife sink into himself rather than his fragile master.

The king raised his metal shard and banged upon his chair, sending a shivering chord through the entire valley, awakening the trumpeters.

Their melody was calming, easing whoever opposed the king into an indefinite slumber.

And so the two fell upon the cold, uprooted bricks.

The conductor crawled towards the throne. He didn't know what compelled him to do so, but the image of his King was the last one he desired to see.

The ruler looked down at his servant, bleeding heavily from his chest. The man wanted to cry but sucked it up in a fearful laugh. He looked deeply at his King, wanting to swear every swear he could at the inhumane monarch, but not finding the strength to do so, having even less energy than the king.

He coughed up blood till it lay dried upon his lips, and his hand slowly went limp.

The man upon the glass throne looked back up, knocked three times on his mirrored chair, and waited as the lackeys carried the Conductor's body outside. His corpse laid out upon the grass, unburied and unfulfilled.

A new conductor took his place within an evening; the King could no longer tell any difference.

He sat upon his throne, contempt for his eternal torment.