The Lost King's Curse

Centuries before the Great Western Expedition, the Kingdom of Vlitra spanned the northern half of what today is Arbus Arkad. At the height of its power, the kingdom's territories stretched nearly from coast-to-coast.

On occasion, settlers would stumble upon ruins left by that ancient people—generations ago, in the days of the early pioneers. They knew that evil spirits dwelt in those forgotten, dead places, and most decent folk avoided them for fear of being stricken with their curse.

Most, but not all.

The founders of the modern West were a sundry lot. Some were possessed of educations and had too much free time. Some rejected primitive mysticism, moved instead by lust for whimsy and their inquisitive natures. Slavery wouldn't be abolished for decades to come, so while their slaves built the nation, scholars and practitioners of magic took up the hobby of archaeology.

Texts recovered and translated from kingdom ruins spoke of a king named Orick, the last monarch of Vlitra, and the greatest and most feared ruler of his day. His cruelty and detachment earned him many enemies in the course of his life, and his indifference toward his subjects’ suffering no doubt contributed to the fall of Vlitra. Still, to rule for five hundred years—if the records were to be believed—was an impressive tenure for a mortal man.

Orick's house crest was a snarling manticore; a creature of myth, just as the king himself had become. King Orick had sired no heirs and was the last of his line. Keeping with the traditions of Vlitra, only his tomb bore his heraldry after his passing.

Twenty-seven kingdom tombs were unearthed between the years of 100790 and 100870, but the tomb of King Orick long eluded discovery. The legend of the Lost King's Tomb only grew in that time, and so too did the legends of King Orick’s fabled treasure he was thought to have been buried with. There was talk of crystal scepters and golden chalices—wealth beyond imagining—but the proliferation of a rumor concerning the Lost King’s crowning jewel soon came to eclipse all hearsay.

Some circles called it the Tyrant Stone—an immaculate ruby the size of a man's head—but whether the vaunted gemstone truly existed would remain a mystery, as would the location of the Lost King's final resting place.

For a time.

In Solar Year 100879, the state government of Arbus Arkad hired the Hannefy family to break ground at Mount Golbad, the solitary and imposing crag that towered in solitude over the verdant plains in the heart of the Untamed West. Their job was to prospect, ostensibly to find gold to replenish the depleted coffers of the old oligarchs. It would be years, though, before any precious metal was mined out of Mount Golbad, because the Hannefys uncovered something else first.

A kingdom tomb, the first found in a decade, and above its sunken ingress in the shadow of the mountain was carved the manticore.

Fatefully, before the oligarchs could so much as whet their appetites, the Divine Order of Solaar stepped in. Mount Golbad was declared a historic site and placed under the protection the Church, until the significance of the discovery could be fully evaluated—which they expressed no interest, nor urgency, in doing themselves.

It was a costly proposition, and since anything of value found under Mount Golbad would now be property of the Divine Order, there was no impetus to shoulder the financial burden of sponsoring the excavation. The state turned elsewhere to make ends meet, and the tomb of King Orick remained sealed.

For a time.

In 100885 an investor appeared offering a solution—he would pay for the excavation himself. As an expert in the field of archaeology, he oversaw the effort personally, assuring the Bishop of the Divine Order that neither fame nor fortune drove him. He wanted only to see the project completed as a point of private, sentimental pride. So humble was the archaeologist, in fact, that he would go unnamed in all surviving accounts of the original excavation of Mount Golbad.

The work began immediately. The full contents of King Orick's tomb were cataloged before the end of the year. The diggers found neither treasure nor evil spirits under the mountain—just a weathered skeleton slouched on a stone chair, covered in dirt and grown over with roots and lichen.

It was a dreary tableau, as sad as it was disappointing. To call it a tomb at all was misleading. Where the diggers expected a sarcophagus and a reliquary, they instead found a scene more akin to a sanitarium ward. It was as if the Lost King was never interred, but merely left to die alone on his dilapidated throne in a fraying nightgown. The skeleton wasn't even wearing a crown.

There was an attempt to cut away the roots pinning the king's ancient remains in place, but his bones were so brittle from the passage of time that they crumbled to dust at the gentlest touch. Only his skull was recovered, which remained remarkably intact. They found nothing else of value in the guts of the mountain, but because the skull might prove interesting to historians, the same archaeologist who sponsored the dig volunteered to deliver it to the Bishop.

The archaeologist congratulated his crewmen—all of whom would be dead in a month—and after bidding them farewell, he traveled west by caravan from the lonely figure of Mount Golbad—the sparkling peak that would one day become Arkadia, in all its splendor.

On the evening of his first day on the road, he consulted the skull of King Orick. Deep in the night, alone in his tent while the caravaneers slept, he lit a candle and fetched the trunk meant to convey the skull into the hands of the Church. Unlocking it, he took out the old king, turning him over once before placing him gingerly on the ground, the candle flickering between them. He waited, staring expectantly into King Orick's empty eye sockets.

“If you were hoping for a better opportunity, I'm afraid it's really now or never,” the archaeologist sighed at length.

At first, nothing happened. The night was still and quiet, clement with a light northerly breeze. The skull stirred, then, dragging itself an inch across the ground by jostling its jawbone. The old king looked sidelong at the archaeologist, ghostly lights appearing where once were his eyes—pale and murky, like the moon glimpsed through a fog.

“Trespasser...” accused a distorted voice. The word was spoken slowly, as if by someone testing a foreign language, or a drunk trying not to slur. It had been a long time since King Orick last spoke. “For disturbing my royal chambers and wresting me from my throne, I curse you.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” said the archaeologist. “Nobody's heard from you in a while. People were getting worried.”

“The lies of a charlatan,” muttered the skull. “I was hated, and my subjects wished me dead. Tell me, thief, who rules Vlitra in my stead?”

“Nobody,” said the archaeologist. “The kingdom's gone. The people that settled here after the collapse named their country Arbus Arkad.”

A contemplative pause before the skull spoke again. “Golden Land. From the old dwarven.”

The archaeologist nodded.

“Someone young and foolish came up with that,” said the king.

“You don't know the half of it,” said the archaeologist.

“I suppose you want my treasure, then,” tittered the skull. “But lo, there is none! A petty burglar such as you will know no reward but my curse!”

“I'm fine, thanks,” said the archaeologist. “All I wanted was the Tyrant Stone.”

“Huh?” said the skull. “The what? Is that really what they call it, the people from your Golden Land?”

“What did you call it?”

“As if I'd tell you,” barked the old king. “Nothing so garish as Tyrant Stone, to be certain...”

“Whatever it's called,” the archaeologist said, “it's the only thing I'm interested in, so if you aren't using it for anything I think I'll take it off your hands.”

“You'll never find it, even should you search for a hundred years!”

The archaeologist frowned. Not even a quip about having no hands to take things off of. Perhaps the old king's prolonged solitude had blunted his sense of humor.

“It's lodged in your skull,” the archaeologist said. “I checked a moment ago, when I got you out.”

“Oh,” said King Orick, taken slightly aback. “You did, did you? Then, know this—there is a terrible curse upon it! To so much as touch it will poison your very soul!”

“My very soul?”

“Your very soul,” affirmed the king.

“Not to worry, then,” assured the archaeologist. “I don't keep it on me.”

“Huh?” said the king, swiveling again on his jawbone as if to take a closer look. “Oh... You’re like me. I wasn't expecting that.”

The archaeologist shrugged.

“Why are we talking about it, then, if you already know where it is and you don't have a soul to poison?”

“It seemed like the polite thing to do,” said the archaeologist.

“Oh,” the skull said. “I see. Well, yes. I suppose.”

“You could try using its power to stop me.”

“No, I don't think so...” the king mumbled. “As diminished as I've become, its power is sufficient only to speak and to observe.”

“That's fairly impressive if you ask me,” said the archaeologist. “Most skulls can't do either of those things.”

“That's nice of you to say...”

The conversation floundered. The archaeologist reached for the skull to terminate their brief association, but hesitated at the last moment.

“What happens to you, if I take it?”

“Who knows,” mused the king. “Its power is the only thing that yet ties me to these useless bones. Perhaps my consciousness will return to where my soul is anchored. Perhaps in the fullness of time some sorcerer will find that place and make a new body for me.”

“Or perhaps they won't,” said the archaeologist. “Maybe nobody will find you, and your mind will float adrift without a body forever. With no way to interact or communicate with the world. Without even a way to perceive it.”

The skull said nothing.

“I could spare you from that,” the archaeologist offered. “Tell me where your soul is and I'll go and destroy whatever you've anchored it to. Consider it payment for the Stone.”

Uneasy silence settled over the tent once again. The candle burned low, causing the shadow cast by the old king's skull to stretch and dance.

“I think not,” said King Orick. “To choose between life and death is no choice at all. I'll take my chances without a body. Do what you will, thief. And whatever else you think you know, be reminded that you inherit my curse.”

The archaeologist nodded. He might have asked the king if there were others like them, or what spell he'd used to separate his soul from his flesh, but he sensed the Lost King was in no mood for further discussion. In any case, King Orick was touched by madness, a condition only exacerbated by centuries spent alone in the dark—and even if he was of sound mind, what reason did he have to reveal his secrets?

The archaeologist picked up the skull and reached into its hollow cavity to pry free the magnificent gemstone lodged within. Not as big as the rumors claimed, after all. But certainly beautiful, and swimming with otherworldly light...

The Lost King's eyes went dark, and his skull never stirred again. Months later, a skull was delivered as promised to the Bishop of the Divine Order, but the archaeologist did not accompany it to certify its authenticity. That skull is still displayed at the State Museum of Oddities in Gaffer's Bay, though some believe that the real skull of King Orick went missing many years ago—or more likely, was destroyed by grave robbers.

* * *

In 101051, Frans Abel paid a visit to Baron Radegat in the Inland Belt. The Baron was the self-appointed head of state in the New Sovereign of Serket, one of the only stable regions in the Belt. He ran Serket more like a business than a nation state, and over dinner he informed Frans Abel with a smile on his face that business was booming.

“War's where the real money's at, no joke,” said the portly Radegat, grinning like a crocodile as he chewed his rare steak. “Trade tariffs, merchant licenses suspended without warning, whole shipments tied up in port under search and seizure warrant... Or you can move your product through me. Whatever Gnosos is doing in Nemia, I hope they never finish.”

Abel smiled politely, swirling the wine in his glass.

“So you're in town to do some banking,” said Radegat, finally. “Depositing or withdrawing? You want to talk investment opportunities? Now’s the time. I got something cooking I could let you in on the ground floor of. Not ready to go public yet, but it’s got to do with logging rights.”

“None of the above, thank you,” said Abel. “I'm just checking my safe, then I'll be out of your hair.”

“Checking it for what, I wonder,” scoffed Radegat, wiping grease from his jowls with a damp towel. “You ever planning on telling me what it is you do in there? Or what I’ve got locked up for you that you’re doing it with?”

Not even a quip about having no hair to get out of. Abel sighed and set his glass down, eager to be free of the Baron's company.

“Your bank is the only establishment in the world offering both discretion and security that meet my standards. I pay above your going rate for those services, so let's not spoil a good thing over idle curiosity.”

“Point taken,” said Radegat, downing the last of his drink. “My people know you're on the premises, and by now I'm sure you know the procedure. Head upstairs when you're ready.”

Without further invitation, Abel did.

The “procedure” was time consuming and invasive, but necessary. No shape-shifter nor illusionist could pass for what they were not in the Bank of Serket. Methods as meticulous as they were exotic were brought to bear in this place for the sole purpose of ensuring only the genuine article was admitted to the vault of Frans Abel. And may the gods themselves help anyone that tried to simply force their way in.

First was a simple interview—a password, essentially, the length of a conversation. It included specific answers to specific questions, though the responses were expected to vary depending on the order they were asked in, which was random. Frans Abel would be evicted as an impostor if he failed to cross his legs or put his hands on the table at the right time—he would have it no other way.

Next, a caylid was admitted to the screening room—a mouthless dog with a slender face native to the Fey Forum. In much the same way as a bloodhound was used to scent out illicit substances, the caylid could remember the unique smell of an individual’s mind.

Last, Abel was asked for his vault key, the only one of its kind, but inert and useless until paired with the Baron’s own. Two full hours after standing up from dinner, Frans Abel at last passed inspection, and was allowed to proceed.

Abel’s vault, which cost him as much as most prime real estate on Arkadia Plaza, was as cramped as a prison cell. Windowless with a low ceiling, the vault's only features were a wooden stool to the left of the only door, and a folding table pushed against the far wall. As he entered, the Baron's men slid the door closed and locked it behind him. To exit, he would have to knock—another protocol of his own specification.

Left on the table was a plain metal bank box, and even with his back against the door, Abel could feel the thing stored inside calling to him. He didn't dare draw closer for fear of poisoning that precious thing. The final step of the “procedure” needed to be enacted first—the step the Baron and his men didn't know about.

Abel knelt and drew a stiletto from its sheath belted to his ankle, then he untucked his shirt and lifted it to expose an old scar along his abdomen, the stitching still in place. Using the stiletto like a letter opener, he parted the stitches and spread upon the wound. With rehearsed precision, he slithered two slender fingers into himself to remove the glittering ruby from his body. Shivering, he placed it gingerly on the stool.

There was no pain—sensation of any kind was a discomfort long forgotten. But parting with the Tyrant Stone always conveyed risk—he still didn’t fully understand the side effects of rejoining with it. Abel produced quill and ink next from a pouch on his belt, followed by a worn, leatherbound notebook.

Finally, he drew out his pocket watch, unclipping its chain from his belt loop and leaving it face up on the stool next to the priceless gemstone. He opened the notebook, taking a moment to reread the few most recent entries. The pages had been filled with a list of dates and times, a few years apart in each case. Beneath every one was the same annotation.

Not ready.

It troubled him that he couldn’t remember writing those annotations. More troubling besides, was that it appeared whole pages had been torn out in places. He couldn't account for those, either.

The experiment began officially when he picked up his quill, glanced at the watch, and wrote the current date and time—accurate to the minute—beneath the previous entry. Preparations complete, he took a breath and advanced to the table.

The experiment was simple. Open the bank box, make observations about what was inside it, and record them in the notebook. Abel permitted himself five minutes to do so and not a second more—a time limit chosen arbitrarily, motivated only by an intuition that any longer might jeopardize his ability to rejoin with the Tyrant Stone.

As it stood today, he knew only two facts about the thing inside the box. First, its relative size. Whatever it was, it had to fit inside the bank box, which was one foot to each side and eight inches deep. Second, whatever it was, Frans Abel’s mortal soul was anchored to it.

According to his notebook, it had been nearly five years since he last visited the Bank of Serket. In that time, Frans Abel's capabilities with magic had grown considerably, as had his grasp of the nature of the mind—the phenomenon of consciousness itself. Today, he stood clothed in powerful enchantments, warded against harmful sorcery and psychic intrusion.

Today, he might just learn something.

Abel placed the notebook and pocket watch on the table in easy reach, and with four minutes and fifty-two seconds left on the clock, he opened the dusty, metal lid of the bank box. Had he expected to see something exotic, or mundane? Had he hoped for one over the other? Physically, a soul anchor required no particular characteristic to fulfill its purpose, at least in theory. It could be anything. Frans Abel had no expectations or preferences either way—all he wanted was to know it. Just the same, as he beheld the contents of the box, something stirred in him. Neither a positive nor a negative reaction; it was magnetism with a neutral charge... and it was intoxicating.

The object in the box was a notebook not unlike the one he'd brought with him, though larger and clearly much older. A diary, he saw as his eyes registered the embossing on the faded cover. Abel reached for it, but stopped himself, remembering his task. Before proceeding further, he recorded his findings.

Diary, pre-Arkadian.

Already he'd accomplished more than on all his previous visits combined. The thought was encouraging, but with the time limit he'd imposed upon himself, reading the diary in its entirety was impossible. Setting his quill aside, he took the diary gently in his hands and turned it over, guessing he'd learn more by starting at the end and working in reverse. He turned one yellowing page, conscious of how brittle it was, and began a general analysis, dictating silently to himself.

Imprint visible on the binding—coat of arms, Duchy of Euclea, circa 100700. Language—international common, with dialectic flourishes of old dwarven, and... something else. A language he didn't recognize, which likely meant a dead one. Not indecipherable to a modern reader, though.

The handwriting—his own? But riddled with the errors and imperfections of early development. Himself as a child, he realized. And as he progressed into the older, earlier entries he saw a second script, this one much tidier. A woman's, he thought. The diary had two authors.

Abel's hands were shaking. With two minutes and twenty seconds left, he set the diary down and turned again to his notebook. Moving his quill to the page to record his observations, he hesitated, a nagging, half-formed fear taking shape in the back of his mind. He wrote no further. He set the quill down, picked up the diary, and read on.

The diary's second author was a maternal figure. Not a birth mother, but something far more profound. This was a patron of formidable means, intervening in his early life to change its trajectory on a cosmic scale. A benefactor, as he had known there must have been. The one that turned him into the thing he was now, in a tragic and impulsive act of compassion. Their very final act, it seemed. He had known love.

It was so unlike taking in the cold facts of a stranger's past. As he read on, he didn't just learn, he remembered. This was his life—his mortal life—and his own soul dwelt within these fragile pages. He could feel it, and he knew it could feel him, too. His soul had awaited him there, always willing to return to him, even after so long...

It yearned for him, he realized. To be whole with him again. To forgive him.

And Frans Abel in turn yearned to reclaim what was his. The ordained duty entrusted to him. His birthright. A fate of mythic proportions—as he had always known he was destined for! Yet in the pages of the diary, there was a terrible contradiction.

Forty seconds left. How had he come so far, not knowing? His soul anchor had only been in Serket for the past twenty years. Before that, he'd hidden it elsewhere, and in the beginning he'd carried it with him. How could it be that before today, he hadn't even known what it was?

The answer was so obvious it hit him like a physical blow. Of course he'd known. He had known, and forgotten, and known again countless times by now—and each time, he arrived back at the same conclusion. There was no curse, no trap or trick of magic. Only a truth he couldn’t confront, responded to by the most basic instinct for self-preservation. He would have to be better than he was to reclaim his past—not just more powerful or clever, but actually better.

To know himself now would doom him.

There was no way to justify the thing he had become to the person he once was. No way to reconcile the deeds of Frans Abel with the dreams of the child in the diary. He would hate himself if he was made whole again, and in his turmoil he would be destroyed. To make that choice now would be tantamount to suicide, and a choice between life and death was no choice at all. Frans Abel happened to enjoy his life—far too much to simply let it end.

With fifteen seconds left, he shut the diary back in the bank box and gathered up his things. Retreating to the door, he first rejoined with the Tyrant Stone—a tricksome process—and once finished, he tore the last page out of his notebook and conjured a flame to burn it. He re-wrote the time as of five minutes ago, hastily scribbling a line of text beneath it, then propped the notebook open on the stool beside his watch.

Next, he would need to call power from the Tyrant Stone for a more complex twist of spellwork. Magic to cut out recent memories—an invisible scalpel used to perform surgery on the mind. He'd turned that scalpel on many an unsuspecting mind over the years, though he never imagined he would one day go under the knife himself.

He wondered how many times he had done it. With numb detachment, he dismissed his wards and protective enchantments, and he set to work.

Frans Abel's next recollection was of looking at his pocket watch. He didn't remember putting it on the stool, but there it was, beside his notebook—with another new entry in it. Today's date, next to the time as of five minutes ago. There was one line of text underneath.

Not ready.

Abel clicked his tongue. Another failed attempt—but it was no matter. He would try again in a few years. Perhaps next time he would bring instruments with him, to measure and record happenings in the room during those five minutes he couldn't account for. Frans Abel was a creature ever evolving—his mastery of cosmic forces ever expanding—and above all, he was patient. He had all the time in the world, and one day, he would solve the puzzle in the box. One day, he would be ready.

Whatever that meant.

About the Author:

Michael Goe is an American fiction writer living in Bloomington, Indiana. He grew up inspired by masters of sci-fi & fantasy like Philip K. Dick and Garth Nix, and credits his motivation to share his own stories to a lifelong love affair with tabletop role-playing games.

His first novel, Children of Nemia, is nearly complete and will be independently published to online retailers soon.

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Michael Goe is working on his debut novel, Children of Nemia. Check out his website to read the first chapter.