The Dragonwalk Highway: The Fellowship of Thirteen

1 - A Dying King, an Upstart Princess, and a Lovable Rogue

The empty throne room magnified the agony of the cries, the distress of the groans and the hopelessness of the wails. The sounds filtering down the hallway echoed off the white marble columns...echoed...echoed...echoed...and then...silence.

Draco Dragonwalk sauntered into the throne room slicking back his raven black hair. He listened to his footsteps echoing on the floor. He stopped and listened. Silence. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure he was alone and then continued his saunter to his father's throne. His throne. He lowered himself onto the silk cushion. Just as his ass cheek grazed the cushion, another chorus of groans and wails flooded into the throne room. Draco shot to his feet, face red, looking like a child caught wearing his father's armor.

Soon the death wails faded to silence again. Draco waited for another eruption—but the silence did not surrender. He breathed a sigh of relief and lowered himself down onto the throne. He wiggled and wriggled, doing his best to erase his father's butt groove.

"Long live the ki—"

Another groan cut him off. It originated from the King's bedroom down the long hallway from the throne room. Inside the bedroom a dozen of the king's couriers surrounded his body lying motionless and face-down on the floor. His groan trailed off and ended in a slow, drawn-out gurgle, followed by a burp, then a groan, and finally—silence.

When all the noises finally surrendered to the silence, the couriers glanced around at each other, questioning. No one moved toward the king's body. Eventually all eyes settled on the King's head courtier and advisor, Gulliver Francesca.

"Bollocks," he said.

He moved cautiously toward the king's body. He knelt over his royal majesty and stretched his quivering fingers toward King Dragonwalk's shoulder. Just before his finger's made contact, the king erupted in a fit of coughs and phlegm-infused hacking.

"Hugh! Ack! Uuuuuuuphew!" Then he cleared his throat. "Don't touch me, boy. You know I hate being touched."

"I hate when you call me 'boy," Gulliver said.

Gulliver was nearly sixty years old. He had been serving the king for forty years, but he had never graduated beyond "boy" in King Dragonwalk's opinion.

"You still pick your nose like a boy," the king said into the carpet. "You and your filthy hands won't soil me, even after I'm a corpse."

"Then do you wish to die on the floor or in your bed, sire?"

The king considered his options. "I believe I'd like to die in my bed."

"Very good, sire."

The courtiers moved toward the king.

"Stay back, you bastards. I can do it. Just—give me a moment."

The King's left arm rose into the air and then fell like driftwood to the floor. He posted his arm and then managed to do the same with his right. He strained and pushed himself up, straining and quaking with the effort. The effort was there but through all the straining he never moved an inch vertically. He squeezed out a fart (which everyone ignored) and then finally gave up.

Gulliver reached down to help again. The King swatted him away.

"I told you to piss off!"

The courtiers were saved from further aggravation by approaching footsteps. Zelda Dragonwalk, the King's daughter, rushed into the room with her lady-in-waiting, Sheena. Zelda fell to her father's side and everyone immediately relaxed.