A Dark Knight in the Palace

by: E.M. Burlingame

The dark cave like room smells of man and a thousand years, stale booze, sweat, blood and old stones, the moldy rot of a kingdom near onto its knees. Empty bottles roll across the floor, clinking against each other, while the remains of a feast sit like a corpse on the long table: gnawed bones, congealed fat, a smear of gravy gone cold. Shaggy dogs having had their fill, lay passed out upon the cold stone floor.

The prince slouches in a high-backed chair, his face half-cocked like a bad joke, clutching a bottle like it’s his last friend. The lord commander, jacket half-off and dusty, leans on the table, a goblet dangling from his scarred fingers. The dim light from the massive fireplace flickers, throwing shadows that look like they’re plotting too.

“Fuuuck,” His Royal Highness slurs, his voice thick as mud. “This whole damn place is fallin’ apart. Factions everywhere, rippin’ each other’s throats out. And we’re s’posed to—what? Hold it together with our bare hands?”

The lord commander, once a name in the shadows of secret wars, grunts, a low, wet sound that might’ve been a laugh once. “That’s the game, your highness. Always was. Factions are the demons dragging us all into the gutter, gnawin’, fightin’ for the shit-covered scraps.”

HRH takes a sloppy swig, wine splashing down his front. “And us? We’re the big demons, huh? King demons, scrabblin’ to keep our chunk of the blood-soaked pie.”

“Speak for y’self,” the lord commander mutters, draining his goblet and slamming it down. “I’m just the bastard makin’ sure the other bastards can’t and don’t swarm us.”

HRH squints at the wall, where cracks spiderweb like veins in the ancient glue holds the stones together. “Even our own court’s a shithole. Nobles plottin’, merchants schemin’, peasants plotting, priest of the church of government screamin’ ‘bout hellfire. How the fuck do we keep ‘em in line?”

“We don’t,” the lord commander snaps, his childhood friend, voice like a blade on stone. “You let ‘em rip each other to shreds. Play ‘em like fiddles ‘til they’re too busy bleedin’ to stab us in the back. But, we don’t let it go too far. Only enough they show themselves for the malevolent assholes they are.”

HRH sways, nearly toppling. “Yeah, it’s all a big, bloody game. Everyone’s just one of a million… broken pieces?”

“Damn right,” the lord commander says, pouring more wine, his hand shaking. “Nothin’s whole. Not the kingdom, not the people, not you or me. Everyone’s got their own little hell, clawin’ at the rest.”

“Even us?” The prince’s voice cracks, eyes glassy. “You think we’re fucked up too?”

The lord commander’s laugh is a dry rasp. “Look at us, you royal shit. Drunk as skunks, holdin’ a kingdom together with spit and curses, and no small measure of manipulation and killing. Yeah, we’re fucked. But we’re still breathin’. Your people are still free.”

HRH nods, face sliding further. “So I gotta be the sneakiest son of a bitch, huh? Watchin’ my back, twistin’ the knife before they do?”

“That’s the gig,” the lord commander says, almost soft. “Ain’t about bein’ loved. It’s about keepin’ this mess from collapsin’. Means you get dirty, real dirty.”

HRH stares at his hands, like he’s seein’ ghosts. “Couldn’t do it without you,” he mumbles. “Only bastard I trust, even if it’s just ‘cause we’re both screwed.”

The lord commander lifts his goblet, slow and sloppy. “To screwin’ ourselves first. Keeps us kickin’ a bit longer. Ain’t no one can be more ruthless against us than us. That’s the trick.”

They clink, the sound sharp in the dead air. Silence falls, heavy as a noose. The fire crackles as it’s done for a thousand years in this very hearth.

Then the prince’s face twists. “Sometimes I think—fuck it, let it burn. All this schemin’, all this blood. Easier to watch it go up in flames.”

“Can’t,” the lord commander growls, eyes cutting through the haze. “Too many poor sods leanin’ on us. We’re the assholes between them and chains. And, well, you’ve seen the weak fuck royals who have. Not worth a drink of peasant piss.”

The prince nods, slow, like it hurts. “Yeah. Gotta keep goin’, even if it rips us apart. Fuck! As it’s ripping us apart.”

“That’s why we drink the good stuff till blackout drunk,” the lord commander says, sloshing more wine into his cup. “Numbs the hurt. Lets us carry the weight for five damn minutes.”

The prince hoists his bottle, trembling. “To never forgettin’, then. To carrying the weight. To hell with the rest!”

They drink deep, the wine not enough to kill the truth: the factions won’t stop, the knives won’t dull, and their people’s lives hang on their bloody choices. But here, in this molding ancient ruin of a room, they’ve got a generations old friendship—and that’s enough to stumble through one more night.