The Trapper's Son

Renard wakes in the medical tent of some kind of encampment, still in the valley, but far from the bowl. Though initially disoriented as to where he is or how he got here, he recognises almost immediately that he must have been found, treated, and saved by the owners of this camp. Stunned by this turn of incredible luck, indeed so stunned it defies any trace of that strange death-accepting delirium from before, Renard simultaneously feels the need to express his gratitude, and incredible fear of doing so without knowing who these strangers are.

Though still exhausted, he’s been treated enough that he can ably stand up and peek out from the tent. The group outside look to be nobles, dressed in matching tabards over expensive armour, each with swords at their hips. Though they are currently chatting around the central firepit or idly doing chores, Renard intuits from the ramshackle tents and constant flow of burdened pack animals, alongside all the weapons, that this is a military encampment.

The soldiers notice Renard and invite him over. He emboldens himself, slaps on a smile, and dives into the conversation. While the soldiers ask him about how he wound up in the valley, the chatter attracts a dignified man who introduces himself as Sir Galfrey, and chides the others for disturbing Renard while he’s still recovering. It is only upon hearing his title that Renard realises these soldiers are not just soldiers, but knights.

Renard assures that he’s fine and decides to stay in the circle. But, feeling alienated as the conversation flows away from him, he changes the subject to recount his tale of throwing a sheep into a tree. The knights are sceptical, but receptive. Encouraged and eager to impress them, hence secure their acceptance, Renard shows off his accuracy at throwing stones and hand-eye coordination by juggling them.

Genuinely impressed, the knights note the talent he may have as a slinger, and that his technique is like that of the Tekse. Though put off by the imposition of these outside suggestions of what to do next, Renard is heartened he has been accepted, and comfortably settles into life at the camp. In his dense, blithe way, he neglects to say thank you or question more of what they are doing here, or even what he is doing here.

Several days later, change comes to the camp.

A group of knights arrive that Renard has not seen around before. They have been out on a mission, and have finally returned.

Successfully, as it seems. An air of great cheer and relief surges through the camp, which aborts immediately when one final figure emerges out of the bush, at the tail of the group.

What is that! Renard reels upon seeing the silhouette, That’s a monster!

The elegant figure looks like a man, finely dressed with keen intelligence in his coal-black eyes, but the instincts screaming at Renard to flee are the same ones that would fire when faced with a stampeding buffalo. Bloodstains cover his ripped finery, as though he has been fighting, but he wears no armour and carries no sword. The hand resting anxiously upon a flask at his belt ends in a set of sharp, but dainty, black claws.

He swoops his head up as he stares over the encampment, surveying the men as would a commander. His motions as he approaches are deathly fluid, either those of dancer trained at court, or a predator.

The only thing that stops Renard from pointing, screaming, and fleeing, is that everyone else here instantly kneels and bows their head in deference upon this creature’s arrival. Not wanting to be noticed, Renard anxiously does the same.

“My Lord," greets Sir Galfrey.

A whisper cuts to Renard: “He is the one who saved you." Not wanting to look impudent, Renard frantically bows his head lower.

The creature nods in acknowledgement to Galfrey. And it speaks:

“The threat of the Pilamines can shackle us no more," every word tugs at the spine like a spider weaving its web, delicate and insidious. The creature grins. “We have taken the water."

The energy of victory rolls through the men, but not a single person moves or speaks to release it. A graveness hangs about this creature that forbids such expressions of levity.

“To Lacren," the creature announces, “and her people."

“To Lacren," the knights echo.

The creature bows its head, satisfied.

Once the short address ends, the camp kicks back into motion. Tents are packed away and provisions are loaded onto wagons, alongside a seemingly endless string of barrels brought by the creature’s returnees. Only now that everything is over, and the question of ‘where are we going’ strikes Renard, does the ‘why’ of the encampment’s presence grip him with any sense of importance.

That man — that creature — is called the Iron King. Though ostentatious, the name does not come from vanity. He is in truth the firstborn son of Lacren’s monarchs, or rather ex-monarchs, since he deposed them some weeks ago. News of that, of course, still has yet to flow through the more backwater reaches of the kingdom, hence Renard’s ignorance of it.

He is also a ghoul. Already dead when he left his mother’s womb, this young prince’s first action was not to suckle his nurse’s breast, but bite it and lap up the blood. Though aware of his monstrous nature, and aware that such a beast could never be heir, his mother couldn’t stand to desert him. While healthy new siblings claimed his spot on the throne, the Iron King was locked away in a cell in the palace, often receiving visitors, but never allowed free.

As ghouls go, though, he is special, hence why he got visitors at all. Most ghouls are mindless creatures. Even those that mimic human speech or behaviour are not conscious of themselves any more than are animals. But, by ingesting human blood, thankfully in small and sustainable amounts, the Iron King can suppress his ghoulish nature and reclaim the full mental faculties of a regular human.

Otherwise said, he is a ghoul uniquely able to operate according to a sense of humanity.

In this way, he cultivated strong relationships with his family, deep knowledge in warfare among other princely studies, and an intense investment in the welfare of Lacren. The warm feelings he harboured for his intimates, and the duties he owed the nation as royalty, for him defined that always slipping, and always fading feeling of humanity. Desperate to hold onto it, he dreamed of doing something truly good and truly selfless, that he may define himself as more than simply a monster people ought flee from immediately.

That was when Lacren’s water crisis began to hit its tipping point.

Though not obvious to peasants like Renard, Lacren has been struggling for the past few years to secure sufficient reserves of drinking water to sustain its populace. The animals the nation hunts and bleeds for water have been thinning viciously in numbers, especially the larger game like the buffalo, such that the monarchs had to consider alternatives. They desperately procured seeds of water-producing plants from eastern shamans, but even these would not grow in Lacren’s mostly dry climate.

Cornered, they began to consider buying water from the nearby city-state of Pilamine.

The implications shook the Iron King. The Pilamines were powerful merchants, positioned on a strong trade route between many other powerful kingdoms. Lacren, meanwhile, was not particularly gifted with any covetable resource but game, so if they were to sell their wood and stone to the Pilamines, (who would refine it, resell, and profit), then use those profits to buy water also from the Pilamines, that meant becoming both economically and vitally dependant upon the Pilamines.

Meaning, if the Pilamines ever desired to conquer Lacren, they simply had to buy all of Lacren’s wartime valuables then price the water too high for them to pay. Lacren would effectively become a vassal state of Pilamine, unless some larger enemy of the Pilamines wished to use the Lacrenese, in which case Lacren would become a vassal state of that enemy. In any case, Lacren would quickly lose most of its autonomy.

No, impermissible! The Iron King cried. Mother, father, battle them, plunder them! Take those merchants to war! We mustn’t compromise with subtle diplomacy against an enemy as this; we will lose!

But the walled city of Pilamine could certainly fortify itself against a siege for longer than a year. Unless the Lacranese could somehow break through Pilamine’s walls, guarded as they were with powerful cannons and archers, before the Pilamines realised how desperate Lacren’s position truly was, Lacren would lose anyway. Submitting the kingdom to the Pilamines and quietly learning its weaknesses to leverage them later felt a more reliable, if longer-term plan.

The Iron King rebuked these ideas, banging madly at his cell at the thought of them. He knew that this compromise was not one the Lacrenese needed to make.

Still, his parents hesitated enough to postpone their plans with Pilamine for next year. This year, they conducted one last hopeful buffalo hunt, releasing the Iron King from his cell so that his keen nose for blood could uncover the last hidden pockets of the creatures. That was where he met these knights, who he soon impressed and befriended over the course of the hunt, and who ultimately agreed with his cause.

It was Sir Galfrey who unshackled him, unlocked his cell, and helped him seal his family away in the tower.

And now the Iron King has done it.

With victory over the Pilamines, he has reciprocated that faith.

Uncaring of the politics, all the story matters to Renard is this: these knights are serving a monster, and they just committed insurrection and guerrilla war in its name. These are not people he should involve himself with and this is not a place he should stick around. As the wagons roll out, Renard seats himself at the rear, eager for an opportunity to jump off and flee.

This ‘Iron King’ of theirs is still chatting with Sir Galfrey. True, the look of nervous admiration from the Iron King as they talk is far more human than the chilling air he exuded some minutes earlier, as is the shy, curious glance he gives to Renard midway in their discussion. This still does not change Renard’s discomfort with the creature.

Sir Galfrey departs to join the wagon trail, but the Iron King returns to the bush, opposite of everyone else. Perplexed and suspicious, Renard sneaks off the wagon to follow the Iron King deeper into the forest.

Renard hides behind a fallen log as the Iron King pauses in a clearing, waiting for something.

Soon a group of soldiers emerges from the forest, these ones not wearing the Iron King’s tabard. They are elite knights from Pilamine, here to tail and assault the Lacrenese forces, who draw their swords and introduce themselves by naming the Iron King as a stillborn ghoul.

The Iron King takes the jibe with grave composure, but still the Pilamines voice their disgust that such a creature has secured enough followers to encourage delusions of its legitimacy. Though their passion excites him, concern and confusion also spike through Renard. Don’t these people realise the Iron King is stronger?

The Iron King straightens himself and says that he is blessed, like all men, with the ability to choose his principles.

It doesn’t matter, the Pilamines assert. You are a ghoul — only that matters. Do not think I merely face you as a Pilamine facing a Lacranese saboteur. I face you as a servant of good, exterminating the taint of your wretched existence before it touches, hence ruins, anyone else.

The Iron King steeples his fingers, as if praying, and asks if that is all they have to tell him.

No, the Pilamines respond. If the Iron King wishes to fancy himself on the level of a man, then he may prove it now by recognising his own evil and killing himself.

The Iron King does not oblige. Their dialogue over, the Pilamines surge in with their blades and the battle commences. An immaculate dance of swords, dodges, and teamwork unfolds through the clearing, and though transfixed by the skill of the combatants, Renard has enough mind to be rattled by his desire for the Iron King to win. For all his fear, and his impulsive distrust of the ‘creature’, the Iron King held far more composure in that talk than the Pilamines, whose rhetoric rubbed Renard as distasteful.

After all, someone conceited enough to call themselves a servant of good ought back that up with some kind of sympathy. Even for — especially for — someone most would deem wicked.

The Pilamines manoeuvre the Iron King into a bad position. Renard’s breath catches as their leader secures a decisive thrust straight into the Iron King’s stomach — but rather than tear through his flesh and pierce through his back, the blade bounces off his skin as if striking metal.

Before the Pilamines can comprehend this phenomenon, a switch flips. Like a feral beast, the Iron King’s claws rip through his assailant’s throat and down his stomach, splaying blood and innards to the ground. More swords come upon him, but he catches the strikes with his hands and mauls these unwitting fools who so blundered as to get into his range. Hands, limbs, bones, guts, brains — all of these go flying, the Iron King a ceaseless flurry of claws, teeth, and murder.

The clearing soon falls still. As if breaking water, the Iron King gasps as he unfurls back into proper posture. He observes the remains of the slaughter with resignation, and exhaustion.

His gaze locks on the log where Renard is concealed. Renard freezes, but as the Iron King approaches, he realises there is no point in hiding and cautiously reveals himself.

“Renard, yes?" the Iron King confirms.

“Yes… my liege," Renard confirms awkwardly. ‘Liege’ is a word that tastes strange in his mouth, but in all technicality, he is addressing the figure currently sitting on Lacren’s throne. Moreover, the Iron King accepts it.

It’s strange how unafraid he feels. After witnessing that slaughter, he should by all rights be screaming. But to have witnessed such an uncompromising show of power, from a figure that asserts itself as Renard’s ally, certainly leaves Renard intimidated, but also wondering if he might be in good hands.

The Iron King turns to the giblets strewn across the ground. He confesses that he prefers not to indulge in the benefits of his nature; however, those who cannot harness their darker sides by their own will, and utilise them as they would any other faculty, are most often the ones who will be destroyed either by their own powers rebelling against them, or by an outsider who has grasped both faculties.

Renard considers this, finding it true, though it perplexes him why the Iron King would tell him so. Most people do not have such defined ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sides to draw on as sources of power. Still, he is arguing that if one could harness ostensibly evil forces for purposes that are good, then the individual will operating that force has effectively destroyed the evil of it, and in fact become more capable of committing good than a person burdened by moral convention. Renard finds himself liking the idea, though something makes him hesitate to voice it.

“It is by your intention that you defeated these men in this manner," he observes instead, kicking a giblet with the point of his boot.

The Iron King confirms yes.

Thrown off-balance by the lack of further explanation or justification, Renard’s brow creases. A simple person could condemn the Iron King for rending the Pilamines apart rather than slicing their necks with a sword, but apart from leaving prettier corpses, if he was to kill these combatants anyway, what does the difference especially matter? Even as Renard considers that the Iron King could’ve pretended to fight as a normal human would, he struggles to see what the point would have been, outside the vague and childish complaint that the Iron King had an unfair advantage. But what was he to do about that? Not have been born as he was?

It is an awesome, admirable thing to use, rather than reject, one’s power.

Seeing Renard come to this conclusion, the Iron King nods and calmly shatters the Pilamines’ souls. What an odd gesture. Would it not have been right to let the Pilamines rot into the same creatures they failed to defeat? These thoughts defy everything Renard has ever considered correct, but somehow, stick in his mind.

But then again, the Iron King’s point is that he is capable of both savagery and mercy. Or from savagery, has become merciful. …Or something to that effect…

This dissonance fades from Renard as the Iron King’s hand on his back eases him warmly forward. He advises Renard not to be afraid.

‘Hah! Who should fear their own monarch?!’, Renard wishes to bark, but even with these reassurances, the temptation to run remains high. He glances despite himself to search for a gap in the woods.

A note of pain comes over the Iron King’s features.

Stricken by guilt, Renard puffs out his chest with gumption. Those Pilamines shan’t dare tread upon Lacrenese soil for a hundred years!

Indeed they shan’t, the Iron King replies, though the hurt is not fully assuaged.

The bush opens shortly onto a road. The Iron King points one way, informing that he and his band will be convening at a town along this route to celebrate their victory before moving on to Sebilles. The other way leads back to Pilamine.

The Iron King advises that, while he has allied with knights and soldiers, Renard is the first civilian he’s met. He continues: If you will walk with me, then follow.

The Iron King turns away, departing down the road. Renard is stunned in awe at the gravity of the offer. By the time he can collect himself, the Iron King’s silhouette has already shrunk.

That instinctual aura of distrust still hangs around the creature’s path, but positive feelings of being wanted — and of wanting to see where this opportunity leads — flood that unease out. Renard departs along the same path, after the Iron King.

He’ll prove this decision was not a mistake.