Young Writers Society

Author's Notes: 1,017 words.  Team C time came sooner than I was expecting.  Rule of thumb: Emmerich = cynical, Franz = idealistic, Wielde = resentful.

“It’s inspirational,” remarked Wielde, the King of Wyandanch, as he propped his elbows against the battlement and placed his chin down on the stone. “Except that I’ve seen barren plains a thousand times, and would rather that there be some houses or mountains or something more interesting.”

One of the two men on either side of him nodded in agreement. “Seres wants you to know what your kingdom looks like. Perhaps he hopes that it might be something more, or perhaps he fears it will be a battleground.” He scratched his white hair, a thick mustache covering part of his mouth. There were large bags under the man’s eyes, but he stood tall and straight, towering over the small boy.

“Is he hoping that I have an imagination? Has he not already seen me enough to know that’s true?” Wielde blew at an errant strand of hair as he sighed.

The other man, looking almost identical to the first save for having longer hair and lacking any mustache, turned and replied to his apparent sibling, “This is a city-state. I suspect that the daft fool only has our King look outward because the insides are too rotten.”

“The advisor wants a unified Confederacy, and so there’s no point in looking inside the city,” said the first man. “He wants our King to look and not see himself trapped, as there is no trap but that of the mind.”

“And how many of us have exited this city in the past few years? We are trapped, but the fool wants the King to ignore it. He wants our King to be as daft as the last ruler.”

“Uncle Franz!” shouted Wielde, whirling around and pointing to his mustached relative, and then to the other. “Uncle Emmerich! Must you always fight like this? We are damned without Seres, whether or not he is showing me the future, or hiding the truth, or both. And, considering how soon my visit to my mother is, I’d rather not hear about how stupid my father was. True as it might be.”

The uncles immediately silenced, looking stoic in their full suits of dragon-emblazoned armor. They placed on their helmets and stared down at their nephew, leaving Wielde to press himself against the battlement. Wielde had ditched his earlier fancy outfit to wrap himself in a blue cape, under which was a blue shirt marked with the emblem of stars shining above strange, hexagonal projections, with a curling dragon at the base. He walked across the imposing wall surrounding the city, followed by his uncles. The guards, dressed in baggy brown pants and metal plates with the same symbol, saluted and raised their spears when the threesome passed by slowly (as the young King’s strides were short).

“It would have been simpler,” said the King in exasperation, trying to climb up stairs while tripping over his robe, “If the lineage went solely through the House of Wyandanch, so it would be one of you or your sons who would have the crown on their head.”

“You do well, my King,” said Uncle Emmerich, voice muffled by his helmet. “You are part-Wyandanch, and have their brilliance, whereas your advisor is a servant of Exedor first.”

“How nice to be judged by birth,” remarked Wielde as the trio reached the top of the stairs. “Does it not prove my point if you say such, when you are both truly born into the House of Wyandanch?”

Uncle Emmerich thought for a few seconds before saying, “We have always been generals, and such is our favorite trade. Wyandanch is built on its traditions, and you are the only child of an eldest Wyandanch child of an eldest Wyandanch child, and so on. Why my sister married that Lecizstan-descended bastard – King or otherwise - is beyond me, but the result is you are the King, and I serve you. You are a masterful King; it is merely your advisor that leaves you to worry about your competence. The sooner he might be replaced with someone who trusts you, the better.”

The trio made their way towards a large set of stone archways towering far above them. A tower protruded above the wall to mark the place where another wall jutted straight into and through the city, splitting it into two sections. Wielde strode unconfidently into the utilitarian space. Various guards saluted, but the majority sat around glowing fires, holding their hands close to the scattered embers. Others pulled weapons and armor from an array of shelving in another corner and cleaned them. Stairs clung close to the walls as they rose around the interior of the building, disappearing as they snaked into the second floor. Cross-shaped windows lined the wall facing the outside world, and a soldier or two practiced their aim with the longbows in their hands.

A young soldier walked past them, holding up a heavy piece of metal (as could be told by the way he bended towards it to keep himself balanced). He’d apparently cut out a lot of pockets in his pants and stuffed them with wrenches and assorted tools. Nervous, he darted about wildly until he stopped the King, whereupon he shouted, jumped back, and dropped whatever it was he was carrying. It was apparently some kind of box, as a few errant metal spheres and rusted pieces of weaponry flew out.

Wielde sighed, stopped, and grabbed a few of the pieces. The soldier’s legs trembled as he attempted to bow to the King in reverence, but Wielde only responded by running (and tripping) towards whatever was sliding away, grabbing what he could, and placing it back in the box. Upon seeing this gesture of kindness, the soldier stopped quivering as intensely and looked up, nodding and appearing immensely relieved. “That man has more of a goal than I do,” explained Wielde to his generals as they walked away. “He, a nobody, has more he can and will do than I, a king, do.” The soldier picked up whatever else had escaped, closed the hatch on the box, and continued carrying it.