Murder the Heroes

Chapter Five; Section Four

Arrend, Duke of Drieburg and heir to the throne, absentmindedly picked at a food stain on his red satin dressing gown. His gaze rested on the two block wide, city long burnt scar that ran through the city. His attention was elsewhere. A thoughtful frown etched his face. It looked completely out of place, perhaps even a little lost – as if it didn't quite know what it was doing there.

He knew he should really put on another robe, but just couldn't be bothered. What did it matter anyway, since nobody could see him? He was, after all, under house arrest. It had been among the first commands the King had given upon reawakening. The Champions hadn't done anything to stop it. That was unfair. After all, they were at least partially responsible. If they hadn't run off, then everything would be fine! Not that anybody had bothered to ask Arrend's opinion. That much was clearer than white wine.

Okay, in all honesty, perhaps Arrend did deserve some of the blame. Admittedly things had gone a bit pear shaped in the short time he'd held the reins. Armies decimated, Krull lost, the Underking rising in the north, goblins in the sewers, an entire district in ruins and the city walls breached. Things did look back – the breach, in fact, looked like somebody had kicked in the city's front teeth. It was a pretty serious list of fuckups. Almost as if it had been planned.

Perhaps it had been.

He chewed on his lip and considered that statement. It wasn't the first time. He'd had a lot of time to think these last few days. Normally he managed to avoid such things by getting lost in wine or panties. Not this time. Both had been severely restricted. He'd tried throwing a hissy fit, but to no avail. No wine or women had been forthcoming. Nor had anybody fixed the damage to his apartment. That was unusual. The mood in the palace must be pretty grim.

His mood wasn't much better. What was he going to do now? His father had been livid. The realisation of how serious things had got had almost sent him back into the healer's arms. The very first person the king had bellowed for after he'd been done with Arrend was the royal archiver, the man responsible for tracking the royal lineage. Not a good sign, for the only time a king needed to know about the family tree was in order to decide who would inherit what title. And in this case the only title that might be in question was the throne itself. Arrend wondered if the king regretted cutting off his brother's balls.

Would that be irony, Arrend wondered. Probably, though he wasn't sure as he'd not really paid enough attention to his grammar tutor. He'd never really understood why some things were irony and some things were just bad luck. Something to do with one's action coming back to haunt you, or something like that? Nevermind. What mattered now was the steady series of unfortunate events that had befallen both him and Aberfell. Almost like it had been planned.

Perhaps it had been.

He chewed on his lip. If it had been planned, then who was the target? Aberfell, or Arrend? Was somebody trying to take over the kingdom, or were they just trying to make him look bad? He didn't even realise how arrogant that question was. He was – and had always been – the heir. That meant there was generally somebody trying to make him look foolish. But would they really go through such lengths? It seemed preposterous. At the same time, the timing was too much for mere coincidence. His father falls ill, the Champions go off on one of their quests, and everything goes to shit. Impressively so.

"Too much of a coincidence," he muttered.

"What's that, your grace?" Asked his valet – his nose still swollen from where Arrend had smacked him with his wine cup. It made it uncomfortable for Arrend to look at the youth. It gave him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something like indigestion. He'd asked for somebody new to be sent up, but that request had also been ignored.