"And what of Farge?" King Fatticus spoke, knowing deep within his subconscious mind he was unworthy. Fear singed his tongue even before the words left his fat, pox-ridden mouth.
"They say he slew a thousand men Your Grace -- and bathed in their blood after the battle was finished. It is said he is invincible, a self proclaimed champion of the true north strong and free."
The king waved a hand to dismiss what he perceived to be the inane reiterations of frightened fools. "He is just a man such as you or I. He spreads exaggerated tales of his prowess to sow fear into our ranks and minds. I can admire such tactical stratagems, but this man is nothing to fear. A leader of a soon-to-be squashed peasant uprising; such as we have seen in the past."
The steward spoke carefully, and with a solemn tone.
"I do not believe this to be true, Your Grace. The men spoke of him as a god, and not a conqueror. They surmise he will be upon the castle before nightfall. His steed is that of --"
"Hah!" the king spouted. "You expect me to believe this man moves as a demon would? I will hear no more of this rubbish."
The very millisecond the king's words ceased to fall from his mouth, there was a great thundering boom. The far wall of his solar exploded into fragments and fired about the expanse of hall in a hail of shrapnel.
The king dove under his dining table, pushing his chair onto it's back. The noise had so frightened him he thought he might loosen his bowels. He was fortunate enough not to do so.
He rose his head with a thump as it banged against the underbelly of the modestly sized dining table and widened his eyes at what he saw.
It was Farge, and even caked in the dust of dried mortar he still seemed to shine brilliantly. His breastplate had a small dent on it from what seemed like an impossible idea to the king. Farge had literally burst through the stone wall with his chest.
What he saw next made him despair even more. His steward had been crushed under more than a few stone slabs, and the impact had left blood stains in every direction imaginable.
His menacing brown braided beard was the only visible feature of Farge's harshly sculpted face as he strode at an impossible speed toward the king -- his blooded and bloodied greataxe swinging loosely from it's sling behind his back.
The king began to panic as a loud crack formed overhead, and the sensation of weight falling upon his hapless spine began to arise. The table overhead had crumpled under the weight of the stones that had landed upon it's surface.
"No!" he bitched -- a bitch himself, he realized all too suddenly -- as Farge's mighty chain gauntlet clasped the fur collar of his fine, if a little sullied, silken robe and hoisted him into the hair, dangling uselessly in front of the surprisingly tall man whose dark brown eyes pierced his soul like a needle through a piece of cloth.
"You would slander the deeds -- and name -- of the mighty Farge? You, the king of women and children-at-arms?" His voiced echoed throughout the hall, as booming as a voice could possibly be.
By now, a handful of castle guards had closed the breach with shield and spear, and readied themselves for combat. Farge knew of their new-found position, but dismissed them as quickly as he had noticed them.
The king felt a small sliver of hope slide into him as he noticed his men moving to defend their king -- but that hope was systematically crushed as a force tighened around his throat.
The other hand which had pacified the king so had released it's unrelenting grip and the king's weight fell at once to his neck. He swirmed and coughed as his feet dangled and his vision blurred into a slow blackening curtain.
"This can't be how it ends" he thought, his mind dulling every second the oxygen fled from his brain. "This can't be real."
With a quick increase in pressure and a loud crack, the king's thoughts stilled; and Farge's grin began.
His ivory-white teeth spotted with blood as the body of the fat king seperated underneath the feeble spine that had now been severed within the mighty grasp of Farge.
He spun quickly and overhand hurled the king's ugly, pox-ridden head toward his guardsman. The impact caused an explosion so fierce that the entire castle had fallen in on itself, and nothing but gravity-defying dust remained.
Heads turned, and within moments a crowd formed at the base of the motte that used to surround a rather magnificent looking grey-stone castle.
Silence broke as a man emerged from the ruins.
Farge. It was Farge.
Only something had changed about him. A crowned adorned his head, and his smiled had faded and hardened into a look of sheer determination.
"Fool king." he shouted, renewing a silence which broke earlier to a rush of murmurs and gasps.
"He never even saw it coming."
And yey the legend of Farge had been begun.
tru stry
