I burst through the doors of my king's sacred palace, a retinue of my guards behind me.
"Gawain." My king's lip curls in disdain. "Why have you interrupted my preparations?"
"My King, the Holy City is revolting!"
"No it isn't," she says, confused, raising her Holy Lance to point at me. "I specifically designed the Holy City's sewer system and hygiene codes to avoid such an issue. And even if this was not sufficient to prevent odor build-up, such matters should be brought to Sir Agravaine, and not myself." Rhongomyniad begins to spin. "For the crime of interrupting my workings over trivial matters, I sentence you to-"
"My King, Agravaine is dead, and the Holy City has risen up in revolt!"
"What?" For the first time since my summoning, the Lion King actually looks
surprised by something.
"During the day, when I was guarding the gates, a runner from the eastern fort reached us. He claims that two days ago, their prisoner, who was restrained by Agravaine's Black Chains, got free, and slaughtered them all, with him barely escaping with his life. More of the garrison from the Eastern Fort showed up after that, and they confirmed his story. None of them wished to bring word to you, however, and so they entreated me to be the one to bring you the news."
"Foolish of them," my King notes, her face still utterly dispassionate. "I would not have killed them for completing their assigned duty, but now I must have them killed for their cowardice."
"A bit late for that, my King," I say with a pained smile. "They're all most likely dead. Once the sun had set, and my duties ended, I began making my way through the city, and found that word had reached the city, and that riots had started."
"Why, though?" She looks honestly perplexed at the thought of her citizens rising up against her. "I have ruled justly, and insured that their lives have been comfortable and fulfilling. I have made my city a paradise on Earth, and allowed them to live in it. Why would they reject my benevolence?"
I look at her incredulously. "Your Grace, I believe that they are slightly upset about their friends and family being slaughtered at our gates, and unwilling to indulge in luxury while countless others starve, simply because they met your personal criteria of worthiness."
"Why would they object? To judge who is worthy and who is not is my prerogative as a god."
I wince. "They're... ah... not too happy about you declaring yourself a god, either." Hell,
I'm not too happy about that part, and I'd follow her to hell and back.
"Very well." she raises her lance. "Have the soldiers dispose of them."
"The soldiers are revolting, too."
She frowns. "Then have the Selection Knights dispose of them."
"We don't have any of those, either. You sent our entire supply out with Lancelot."
"And I was not informed of this why?"
"My King, it was
your order."
She frowns for the moment, and then sighs. "Very well. Stand by me. We shall go to dispose of the rioters, and perhaps remind them of what is righteous."
"As you would have it, my King," I say with a sigh.
---
I watch in muted horror as the king I swore to serve unleashes her Sacred Lance on a crowd. The deaths of those at the epicenter of the blast are swift, but the deaths of those on the outskirts? Those are slower. Half-melted corpses outline the blast radius, and the screams of the wounded ring loudly out over the sudden deafening silence, as the rioters stare at the Lion King in terror.
"People of the Holy City." Her face doesn't change, her dispassionate, glowing eyes sweeping over the crowd. "With that blast, I have punished you for your crime of rejecting my divine judgement and violating the peace. Return to your homes, and no harm shall come to you. You are forgiven."
The fear turns to anger, and suddenly a rock hits her in the face.
The man who threw it is clearly an off-duty soldier, one of the ones left over from the Crusader armies that we forcibly recruited. "Fuck you and your forgiveness! Fuck you and all your self-righteous bullshit! You're not our God, and you're sure as hell not our King!"
I note, in that still moment, while the world seems hang stilly in the silence, that the people beside the rock-thrower are all Saracens, and they're hefting rocks of their own. Men who once would fought and died in droves against each other, now standing shoulder to shoulder and looking at us with naked hatred in their eyes.
And then, the moment breaks, as the king hefts her Holy Lance, and the crowd charges towards us with reckless abandon, no longer letting their fear keep them from doing what they believe to be right.
And my King kills them all.
I follow her, wading through the blood, and stepping over the charred corpses, as she goes hunting.
No one is spared, not a single one. No mercy and no regret taints her resolve.
My own men, my loyal men betray us after she first kills a child, charging at us with a stick in hand for killing his mother. She gores him straight through the chest without a trace of hesitation, her spinning lance shredding the corpse. That's when I feel Bartholomew, my second in command, drive his sword into my back.
I kill him. I kill so many.
At the end of it, there's almost no one left. Just a few of the guards and citizens cowed by the sheer slaughter. Less than a dozen.
She turns to me, and I look up at her, removing my gaze from the blood on my hands.
"Gawain."
"Yes, my King?"
"Return to the gate. We will have to hold the Holy Selection again, and tighten our standards." She looks about dispassionately, showing remorse as she looks over the charred and charnel-filled streets. "I am unsure of how our previous methodology managed to produce a batch this faulty, but I will have to amend that mistake." She turns to one of the few survivors, who cowers under her gaze. "You. Clean this up."
"Yes my King."
We part ways, and as I walk to the gate, I find myself staring at the dead that clog the streets, and envying their courage.
