The Smiling Bandit

She strenuously shuffled her begrudging feet to the Fiery King’s court. The restless Armies stood outside the pit anxiously waiting. They seemed not to realize the gravity of their situation. Some glared at her with impunity only to feel their knees buckle at the sight. She was an immortal. A designation not even the deathliest of monarchs could boast of. All wondered how he managed to tame such creature. All knew such power could only be hidden within the depths of the stolen Bestiary. He paced to and fro his dark throne, his flaming brows dancing in the twilight of Hell. She deliberately scraped the dirt beneath her long tenebrous cloak only to end her journey at his feet on bended knee. He stared at her as if for the first time. She peered into the ground as if for the last. Nemesis thy king sends ye forth into the Earthly Realms to seek out and return that which hath been stolen from him. And expunge my shame from existence — slay the thief! Slay the Wanderer!

For close to a hundred years, the Fool grovelled beneath his Master. In the beginning, the warriors held him in pity. But only for a fleeting moment for the King’s simmering rage encouraged the hordes to hastily go their merry way. And after a short while, even the most aimless of imps paid him no mind. He was but an overlooked loon sometimes carelessly knocked about by a frustrated lord. Constantly hunched over some hefty lexicon, the alchemist was but a shadow by then. And yet, as the years dragged by, the King grew increasingly weary of his charge. For despite the grounded wanderer’s emaciating body, he seemed to gradually become a heavy burden on the fallen deity. 

In his dungeon, the bard’s apprenticeship was long and arduous. For an alchemist, he understood little about Black Magic. To get proper results, the Master was constantly forced to roast and kick him. Levitation, telepathy, supernatural execration were all subjects at which the Fool failed miserably. And whenever the apathetic god turned away, his pupil’s creepy protruding eyes would dart towards a heavy antique-looking book perched on a stand under a grubby spherical glass. The King would then mutter mockingly that not even a fool would dare peak into the Grim Beastiary lest they be cursed for eternity for it is a grimoire fit only for kings and queens. An indolent slap across the jaw would then send the wanderer flying only to land abruptly on the dusty tiles beneath him, the shackles fortunately preventing him from hitting the walls. Still, nothing seemed to erase that grin. Oh, it was more than sheepish by then but the twinkle in his eyes never dimmed. And while the Fool’s spirit never seemed to fully break, each lesson would drain the King further of his already low energy.

Beelzebub, upon hearing word of his jailer’s apparent languor, allied himself with a disgruntled Francisco Pizarro, broke out of the Burning Temple and sparked a civil war deep in the bowels of Hell. To put down the rebellion, the King’s advisors urged him to unshackle the alchemist. Surely, after a century-long internship, he was by then a terrifying mage. Alas, the so-called necromancer couldn’t even summon a pixie light. The demons proposed to dispose of him but the corpse god would have none of it. Even if it took a thousand years, a Conquerer Monarch must keep his word and make of a coward a powerful conjurer. You want to turn coal into gold? From a single strike of his thunderous hammer, the King smote the haughty demons and went to war with a fool at his side. Unfortunately, at the height of battle, the wanderer was turned into a pile of gore by a throng of mutinous savages. 

After a quick and sound victory on the ill-prepared Beelzebub and his cronies, the Army of Hell were more restless than ever. They were keen on ravaging the Earthly Realms. But, the mighty King was exhausted. Without a single peep or whimper, they begrudgingly let him climb down to the lowest pit for a long respite in his lonely abode. The invasion would have to wait.

Down in his dungeon, still hampered by the dead straggler, the monarch put away his fiery crown and fell on his bed. Yet soon enough, a demon tore him away from his fresh slumber. Who dares… The lowly devil stammered. Hell’s Fleet, the ships that were to take the Army to the mouth of the River Styx were ablaze. Well, hurry! Extinguish the flames silly! The frightened lackey replied that the rapid oxidation had caught all by surprise and though there was nothing left of the ships, the fire still burned. Still burns? The King’s red scalding kisser went incredibly pale. The light in his eyes went out. He looked at the pile of gore that was once the Fool questioningly. And then his dimmed orbits darted frantically to the stand under a grubby spherical glass. The Beastiary! He took it!

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