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Authors: Danbert Nobacon

3 Dead Princes: An Anarchist Fairy Tale (19 page)

BOOK: 3 Dead Princes: An Anarchist Fairy Tale

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“The Prince is dead! Long live the Prince … Killer!
Arrgghh Arrgghh Arrgghh
,” shouted the sort-of-man, stepping into the circle, staring down Braggardio and then looking directly at Stormy. He laughed again.

If as the many tacticians on both sides began pondering the transkinked-men and women were now not with the Oosarians, then quite suddenly the Morainian warriors were no longer necessarily outnumbered.

Stormy was confused. Walterbald, against his better judgment felt his cracked lips break into a half smile. He quickly hid the expression, hoping none had seen it. Only Gwynmerelda had seen the flicker and, though her own face remained impassive, she felt her heart burst into a warm flame of hope.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the laughing man.

“Silence! You insolent creature,” bellowed Braggardio.

“Let the man speak!” yelled a voice from the crowd.

Unnerved, his mind racing desperately for a new plan, Braggardio bit his lip. Nukeander was about to speak but the laughing man cut her off.

“I am General Ghazali, and we,” he said, arms aloft to indicate all his kinfolk, “are the free and noble knights of Andean Kwestpeditionary Force. We travel from the roof of the world, which is also near the bottom of the world. Some call us men, some call us monkeys, but we are something else again. We are gigglanthropic by nature, and we are gigglanths in person.” All the other gigglanths laughed appreciatively.

“Devanimaltalk!” fumed Rogerley Bishop. “These foul creatures are the blasfenemies of all good wangodfearing people,” he shouted, trying to rouse some support among his fellow Morainians. There were some murmurs of confusion.

“Tiz beyond belief, Bishop!” spat Ghazali. “You would step over dead princes and ride on Andean backs to your glorious enthronement as puppet over Morainia, and yet you openly denounce us as lesser creatures. You want to eat your cake and not-shit-it, but I’ll wager you’ll do neither this day.”

Bishop opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it rather than dig himself in deeper.

“You must not have heard my son,” screamed Nukeander. “He said silence!”

“
Agh
, Queen Nukeander, Prince Braggardio. If you can contain your pumpeduppery for one second!”

Ghazali held the flat of his hand up, stressing to the Oosarians that they should remain quiet. “My comrades and I have been silent for you for long enough, quizzleprinks!” And he laughed.

“You call that unbearable laughing being silent?” spat Braggardio.

Ghazali laughed again, “
Arrggah! Arrggah! Arrggah!
” and then composing himself. “We have a saying where we come from.
You laugh … or you die!
So we laugh.”

In this matter Ghazali was closer to the truth than he knew. The giglanthropoid laugh did in fact emerge from kinks within, that tens of thousands of summers previously had emerged as a human adaptation to the choking black dust of the dark times.

Braggardio fumed some more.

“Take care not to,
arrggh, arrggh
, enrage my comrades with your insults, Prince. Or I will set the Prince Killer upon you!”

More laughter.

Braggardio obeyed despite himself.

“Shall I continue?” asked Ghazali of the immediate circle around him.

“Please do,” said Walterbald courteously.

“Silence, prisoner!” the Black Queen clamored.

Braggardio elbowed Walterbald in the ribs. His panic was beginning to reveal itself.

Ignoring them, Ghazali raised his long arms as if he were about to conduct an orchestra.

“We Andeans are present here today to do no one’s bidding.” Then, giving Nukeander and Braggardio a particularly stern look, he added, “Other than our own.”

The gigglanth then turned and focused his attention upon Stormy once more. He said very calmly, “My dear Princess. You were saying?”

Stormy had completely forgotten, if she ever knew, what she was supposed to be saying.

“The tools, girl?” Ghazali reminded her.

“Yes, yes, the tools …” And Stormy had neither the mistiest idea what had possessed her to announce the tools, less still what the tools were.

“Tool, tools, I live by the tools. And the tools er.”

“For nobadness sake, girl,” said the General with a mild hint of impatience, “What are the tools of your trade?”

I don’t have a trade, thought Stormy. But as she thought it, she happened to glance to her left and see The Fool. The Fool saw her look and he returned it, with the same slight nod of his head that he’d given her that night in the Grackle Tavern. She’d seen soldiers then, and she saw them now. She lifted her arms to the natural amphitheatre that the u-shaped Bald River valley provided, and then words came as if in answer to her dreams:

Fellow soldiers, stand at ease, hush-now, take rest,
And I’ll tell a tale to tickle you red.
There’s a prophecy, there’s a quest, there’s a Storm in the west
But a war? Would be most ill advised!

At this there was a slow, building hum of approval, mostly from the Andeans and the Morainians, but also it must be said, from some of the Oosarian foot soldiers. The louder derision came from those who were grouped around the Oosarian command and Bishop’s cadre of wangodmatists.

“By the great God Joke it is She. And I Ghazali Am humbled in thy presence, Your Majesterley”

And the General bowed to the Princess.

Stormy, returning the bow, continued:

Brave knights you are welcome, if you come in peace. And we wish you safe passage to the

Here Stormy faltered for a half breath. Looking around at the assembled masses for inspiration, she was aware of the strengthening warmth of the rising sun on her face. The same sun that the Black Cat had said would set her father free …

… And we wish gigglanths safe passage to the East.”

The eastern passage through the Mezzala Mountains, which Stormy had seen from the air. How she did know in that moment, that this was of even the slightest importance to General Ghazali and the gigglanth people, Stormy had no idea until the day she died.

It was, though.

For the Andean beginning story, and their cultural history stretching back a couple of thousand winters, told of a fantastic otherworld, near the top of the world, east of the impassable mountains. According to
their
legend, it was where their ancestors had lived and built their great civilization. It was there that the Andeans would now find their destiny.

If this all seems very convoluted, that is because, like most origin myths, it was. Though certainly no more convoluted than the story of the Wangod and the animals. Like most prophetic stories, the Andean myth would be refined and rewritten over time, to accommodate changes that would otherwise have shaken the story to its core and shattered its believability.

For a story to survive, especially a prophetic one, someone has to periodically weed out the inconsistencies and retrospectively insert some anticipatory detail of what actually came to pass.

In this case, the great sleeping plague and the thousand-winter enslavement of the Andeans was in fact a virulent bout of Oosarian flu, followed by a practical decision to hitch their ride north by attaching themselves to the Oosarians. The symbiotic relationship between the Oosarians and the Andeans had produced the fleet of warships that now sat minus one in the Lumbiana River. Thus from the Andean point of view, the enslavement was more a round of seasons’ construction contract than a millennial straightjacket. The match of prophecy and fact was hazy, but it was good enough for Ghazali and his comrades. It was for somebody else to hone the details later.

Ghazali and his comrades saw in Princess Stormy a warrior girl who sort-of-fit-the-bill of their legendary redeemer, who would point them in the right direction east. Thus in the moment immediately following Stormy’s uttering the word “east,” the whole valley seemed to erupt with cacophonic laughing and chanting.

General Ghazali lifted his arms once more in a gesture bidding silence, and approached the Princess.

“Dear Princess.”

“Stormy,” said Stormy.

“Ah, Stormy. Yes of course.” He held out a hand to shake, and as she took it, and he knelt before her. “Stormy. Great Princess, Great Prince Killer! Most Royal Highlariness! Your Majesterly. I am honored beyond Time to behold the living brownskin girl of ancient Andean prophecy.”

He laughed, for as we are now keenly aware, gigglanths were always laughing, whether or not it was an opportune moment or not. “We, the mighty Andean Kwestpediter knights, hereby pledge to do you and your people no harm. All we ask is you grant us safe passage through your kingdom.”

Stormy did not know what to think or where to look, so she looked into Ghazali’s eyes. “I, ’er … Granted!” she said, then glanced quickly to Walterbald for reassurance. The King nodded and smiled back at his daughter proudly.

Stormy opened her mouth as if to say something and then exhaled. She looked to her father and he nodded again.

“Tell us more,” she said to Ghazali.

“I will,” said Ghazali, “but first off methinks we must resolve this standoff,” indicating with his long arms the variously arrayed forces of Morainians, Gigglanths, Oosarians, and the odd few other stragglers.

The general cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke in a megaphone voice. It was nowhere near as loud as The Gricklegrack’s cry, but very loud for a man projecting his voice unaided.

“All those in favor of war say aye!”

There were a few limp ayes, mostly from those Oosarians who felt themselves in range of the watchful eyes of Queen Nukeander and Prince Braggardio. The loudest voices were Braggardio himself and Rogerley Bishop.

“Noted,” said Ghazali. “All those against, say aye.” And the full chorus of the hundreds upon hundreds gathered in the Bald River Valley erupted in unison. Some even threw their hats into the air, and everywhere she looked Stormy saw people and gigglanths cheering, hugging whoever was closest to them.

When the ruckum had died down some, a snake-like voice shrieked: “Not so fast!” It was Rogerley Bishop, jockeying for position in the confusion of the morning’s events. Turning first to the Queen of Morainia and then to Walterbald, the probber pointed a finger at Gwynmerelda:

“You think this harlot fit to be your Queen? Oh yes, intrepid King. For while you have been away on your scientical, blasfemical travels, you have been cuckolded by your wife and this man.” Bishop twirled around on the spot to point at Geraldo.

“My spies ” Bishop began.

“Yes, your spies,” snarled Gwynmerelda, “not only almost cost Walterbald his life, but also betrayed the whole of Morainia.”

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