The Red King

By Zane Hampton

Windhelm is in disarray, for the tyrant King Marren has been visited by a strange Messenger threatening his throne and his people. As animals become sick and the land turns cold, citizens of the once great Kingdom turn on each other, unknowingly ignoring the approaching presence of the Red King and his army of monsters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781794859548

Book preview

Zane Hampton’s

THE RED KING

Fight for your family, if you don’t… the whole house will fall.

Prologue

Each step through the mossy floor of the forsaken swamp matched the steady thump of a human heart. The surrounding scenery sat with heavy thick linings of monstrously tall trees. Trees massive in size, ages old, and leaning onto each other for support in crude angles. Such angles where the long branches strangely wrapped around in a circular shape, created a forever reaching crown around the open area. That area, a bald spot, allowed the rain to funnel within violently and the ricochet droplets sliced the leaves to bits forming a ground layer of muck and pointed sticks. And in the center of this area crawled brother to the King Marren, son of Thoric, on a bleeding belly which trailed affront a man holding a broad axe.

Boom.

The large boot of the man behind crushed anything beneath it to rubble. The weight of him could be heard on any point of his body as the tight leather and chain-mail cringed together. Then came the wet noise of sweat underneath, excreting the pungent stench from months without bathing.

Boom.

His large moving fingers were covered over with a tightened layer of tan bore skin, creating a scrunching sound on the wood and metal which formed the axe’s neck. The man on the ground, still pushing forward, had been forced to face away. For the gods had cursed him by using the rain to splash his eyes and coat down his long brown hair. His vision impaired, he defied them as he always did, by pushing forward still.

Boom.

….Boom.

….……..Boom.

The steps were slowing, only catching every third heartbeat of the man dragging through the muck. The large Killer, scarred, battered, slashed, and fatigued was now savoring every moment of this kill. It would be his final for the evening. For up upon the hill from which both men had tumbled down, this man had single handedly turned the tide in his army’s favor.

He was a Champion from a far away land. His ivory skin only aided the appearance of a God once closer. With his broad shoulders, heavy chest and straight and lengthy spine, he was larger than the word larger. He had thick hands built for fighting, wide and meaty with separated knuckles. His monstrous jaw was a block of iron under a massive nose and piercing eyes of blue. His legs were two giant curved logs. And even as they were hidden by a large skirt of silver and leather straps, the size of those legs still showed. Yet his appearance was less than half the intimidation this man truly caused, for with his massive axe, he had thrown grown men five to ten feet from their positions near him just moments before now. Where he had ripped their bodies in half and knocked heads from their shoulders up to the gods with a knowing smile. At the top of the hill moments earlier, he had forced the front-line assault to break in the center. The now weak-spot became the instant target for his brothers, and they had rushed immediately as thanks. When the slaughter changed focus to the men of King Marren, a decision was made.

Within seconds, the thick forest line had been littered with arrows and large balls of hay fueled in fire. Everyone in the fight, whether friend or foe, was targeted. Screaming and yelling cracked the skies as thudding and clanging coated the earth. The men had continued to fight, had continued to follow their King even knowing the betrayal in the air. But it was the Champion of Windhelm under his brother King Julias Marren who had chosen to disobey the obvious order to die. With his small frame of a lean warrior, he shot through the brightening forest. Blocking sword and arrow as he ducked and spun through the flames. His armor consisted of lightweight steel and cotton, to keep him warm yet agile through combat. It worked well, all until he crashed into the enemy grouping, huddled in the mass of bent trees.

The flames above licked away at the wood and brush, releasing droplets of liquid heat down onto their shields and helmets. So unaware of the invading man they were unprepared, their weapons too low to strike quick enough. As he fell into them, knocking four down and leaving two standing, his instincts took over. The slashing and stabbing, kicking and kneeing, biting and ripping, and deflecting to counter was an awestruck of technique done in glorious fashion. These men were children to him, they would drive forward with all their might, holding nothing back, and he would whip his blade underneath cutting deep into their chests. Their screams and cries halted within seconds and soon he was standing among the dead.

Then the branches began falling above his army all around him. Smashing down on men, the ones who weren’t dead were now pinned. They cried out to the gods for help and the small champion felt his heart twinge. He wanted to save them, wanted to bring them home then go to his brother and force that sack of dirt to choke for what he had done. He wanted his brother to see that being a King still has consequences.

That no amount of wine could drown out the truth; he was not a true King.

But he had been hit by a contraption of weight the size of a boulder and was soon bouncing down the hillside away from the battle. His head pounding into wooden stumps, his back racking off buried rocks. He would then hit the swamp floor with such velocity it would slide him to almost the very center of the space, just about fifteen feet away from the opening.

His ears would sing the sound of the devil’s symphony, a high ringing melody meant to drive men mad. And as he stood his body would question him. Stumbling right and left, his chest and back swaying, the left hand would come back from the side of his skull covered in royal crimson.

And the Royalty now sees his blood for the first time, he thinks the words his Swordsmith had spoken ten years prior. A short tale to teach him that he was still human, that he could still die.

THUMP-THUD!

The other Champion hit the swamp hard. His helmet, broken and bent, would come down after him, and after that would be his axe. The axe was so beautiful, it would be an honor for some to die by it. The gods would agree, as they seemed to send it right to his very hand.

The Small Champion grasped for his dagger knowing his sword would be long gone by now. But the dagger wasn’t there. The gods had chosen their side of this fight as the large Champion stood. His soulless eyes covered in dark black shadows in the lighting, his face coated in a hefty beard, and his forehead wore painted misshapen teeth under long thick black hair.

The two men would stand across from each other as the rain poured heavier and harder. The sounds of the fire above were drowned out completely. It was only them, and the gods above who waited for the show to begin.

The Large Champion roared.

The smaller Champion rushed.

And as the two came into contact the axe was swung downwards… and missed its target completely.

The small champion slammed a rock, sharply edged and bulky, into the side of the big man’s skull, then jammed an angular and short stick between his ribs. Jabbing and dodging, he forced himself in close. His skull rammed into the large man’s jaw. The Giant Monster, off balance, tried to regain control. That short stick jabbed harder and deeper with every landing now. His left eye punched in, the next was again his rib cage. Large elbows came around and connected, yet the smaller man was practically unphased. The gods raged above as their warrior was battered and beaten. They cursed the little champion, wishing for him to make a mistake and be caught. But he was smarter than this beast, he was faster, and he was more skilled.

He let the blood flow out of the thick chest affront him for a few seconds before jamming the stick back in. The beast was throwing knees but was just not able to generate the power he needed. By doing this more damage was caused, for it provided more openings. And as the stick spat out of the body with blood, vomiting the liquid onto the hand, it was still eager for more and grateful when more was tasted.

And as the Large Champion’s brain rattled and his eyes spun, the small man looked to prove the gods wrong.

Then they cheated.

His right ankle caught a rock and he fell harshly to the ground. And as he stood, panicked he was going to lose his chance, the axe whipped around. Its large blade seemed clean as it slammed through half his abdomen. And he had fallen back with his eyes to the stars, swearing he could see the gods laughing.

As he defied them still, crawling away from their chosen one, they mocked him.

For a sense of pride was bestowed upon their winner.

And the Killer began to sing.

Oh, yee mighty, yee mighty. How thy sword be blessed, how thy sword be keen, how thy sword be sharp! No man be better than thee! He stepped in larger strides. Gaining on his wounded prey, enjoying the final kill of the day.

For thy brave for thy strong for thy wanting a drink of rum! Thy life will surely go on! His feet come round to the crawling champion. Then one boot rests down heavily onto the loser’s lower back. And said loser watched the muck grow taller as the weight added upon him. His strength pours into the pool that is his belly.

Go on I say! Go on I say! Live life the fullest go on! The Monster screamed out.

As the rain poured the small Champion let out his last breath, ready for the blade at his neck to take his life. But as he stares through the cracks between his dark hairs, he sees a red glimmer in the trees. And as the ending thoughts pinpoint to a single one, he wishes he had time to see what it was.

Go on my son, for the evil wicked… be gone. The Large Champion lifts up his axe with both arms high above his head. The weight shifted on the spine. And for that split second the man beneath thinks of escape. He gives it up, allowing the last wishes of deceiving the gods… to fade away.

KRAAAAAK

A blinding light shatters the ground and the weight instantly disappeared.

KRAAK KRAAK KRAAK

The sky erupted in lightning and his hands came up to his face. He screamed out frantic terror with curses to the gods. He yelled at them! Told them to get it over with, to end his life and let him rest! He taunted them and barked at them, demanding that they obey!

Then it stopped.

There was no sound.

There was no rain.

There was nothing.

He waited for the Reaper to call him.

But there was nothing.

So, he opened his eyes.

Out to the right center of the tree line sat the large champion against a rock. Still holding his axe with melted hands as it glowed a dim color of orange. His chest was a pot where inside the organs cooked like stew. And his face illuminated from the light coming through his neck. He stared up at the gods… dead.

The smaller man, the winner, stands slowly. The red liquid, still warm, washes down his legs. He walks forward like the dead, stumbling at first but then with each step he grows better. He walks taller and walks easier. Soon he is standing straight and proud, his injury nonexistent. He thinks about this, feeling it happen and doesn’t understand. Looking down at his wound, it somehow closes and continues to heal over, sealing more as a scab. He moves with grace and pride, a perfect specimen to the throne. He walks like a king.

Then he looks down…

And he is standing over a stump.

The stump sits in a small space littered with trees. Completely dry, covered in dust and dirt, without any signs of life it seems to study his soul. No insects reside in this place, and it seems nothing has ever come here before. Inside the stump he reaches and pulls out something even the gods didn’t know of.

Its dark red metallic exterior displays so dark it would appear black from afar. Its shape and formation of metal was so smooth and so beautifully crafted, with an interior of comfortable wool he’d never felt before. He lifted it to his face slowly and looked at the red helmet designed like a perfect human skull, with two horns at the forehead, and a place for a crown. Underneath those two short horns were engravings of spells in a written language he could not understand.

His head suddenly felt cold.

The helm is then faced away, and pulled over. As it sets down upon his head there is the smallest bit of struggle to seal it perfectly. And as if in response he felt warmth reside through his body. His muscles thanked him, his bones praised him, his skin flourished.

He feels like a King.

And as his eyes open from within this new face he sees the world before him in a new form. A form in which he will control, where he has no choice but to control. He feels the words of the elders speak inside the inner carvings so close he cannot tell the difference between the wool and his own flesh inside the walls of the helmet. They speak of his power, his intelligence, his greatness, and his love. The helmet is proof to him, that he is meant for something greater, that he is meant to rule. And as the idea which had been held in the darkness for so long by the love he once felt for his older brother came into the light. He recognized it, and chose to follow.

And for the first time in his life he looked to the gods in the sky.

And thanked them.

But the response did not come from the stars.

It came from below.

It came from the darkness…

The Messenger

DORIS

She had seen the Devil, and she was afraid.

It was just as her mother had warned her, just as scary and cruel and vicious, and she was much too soft for it. Just as Mother said she was. For countless times Mother had been proven right on everything she spoke. And when the young girl was heard crying from the woods every half hour on the hour, Mother would come find her, and re-state that proven fact. Yet she would be found like she always was doing what she always did. Sitting in the dirt wearing her blue crust covered tunic of which she loved so much, her hair tangled with thorns and leaves, and that small wooden shovel engraved with a flower in her little pink hand.

That small shovel had been a gift from her father before he left. Having been meant for her to help Mother in the garden it instead was used for the purpose of keeping her safe, as far as she was concerned. That obviously was not working. For she would frighten over even the most foolish things like fish and bugs. Where falling over every rock or log in any direction at least once was her talent. And panicking over the tiniest of sounds no matter if she made them or not was her habit.

So, Mother had called her soft and kept her home as much as possible.

But yet again she had escaped, and went back into the woods.

But this time….

This time she had been frightened by something that would frighten even the biggest and strongest of knights from that big castle past the valley. They would arrive into the forest on this day, distracted by the gorgeous shine of the sun on the dry moss pasted upon the surrounding trees. Staring up at the squirrels and birds as they fluttered through the branches way high above, their heads would be on a constant swivel, with worry in their eyes to miss even a single animal. They would come to where she had gone, into the forest in which day pretended to be night under those massive trees. And they would be scared by what she was scared of.

For she had been scared by the Devil.

And as she ran she knew in the back of her mind she would not be believed.

Still she screamed her discovery all the way home.

She had been at the pond just moments before. Her pond where the light cracked though the darkness in a spotlight shape of an oval. Where she was the center of everything, and all around her nothing mattered. Her father, when he was still with them, had put a stake in the ground and a sign on the stake reading Doris’ Pond. And from that day it was her favorite place to be. She felt safe there when she was too scared to take the trip home just yet. The frogs she had befriended would keep her safe.

They proved this once, when a snake entered. The dark red and yellow worm had come for her from the depths of the dark forest. Its dark wet body slithered through the mud and pushed toward her feet closer and closer. She had been crying and screaming against a tree, petrified. But then the frogs leapt onto it, bashing their bodies against its scaly skin. The snake only managed to catch one of them before it was battered and overwhelmed, it turned back to retreat into hell, and the snake never returned.

After that, she saw to it this was truly her safe place.

Till the man, painted red, came around a tree. His lengthy arm angling strangely to grip onto the tree bark. His head sliding to the side staring directly at her. Then his body came following from the darkness to stand with a strange hunch in his back. His face was that of a glinting skull, on the sides were small wings. He carried with him was a small leather pack slung over his shoulder, and two weapons at either hip. He then moved forward towards her, and within four steps was within touching distance. He lowered himself, face to face with the terrified eight-year-old, and stared at her through bright icy blue eyes as cold as the winter. His breath came out wafting forward, reeking of blood.

And he spoke with a voice which held neither pitch nor volume. Where the words bounded and leapt and bounced like children in play. Though she felt them sinister still, for in her mind those child-like words were playing in the mouth of a long-toothed beast.

Good day my darling. Would you happen to know the direction of Windhelm Castle?

A blood curdling scream erupts from her small lungs, and as her eyes widen his open even more in surprise. He stands up a little straighter in fright. And before he can fully comprehend the situation, she is meters away bounding through the forest like a flash bolt of lightning.

She burst from brush to brush, over logs, rocks, puddles, vines, and animals alike and without tripping or falling once she came through the tree line. Sprinted through the field, past the paddock and into the stables faster than her heart beat. Directly into her mother’s arms and screamed the last bit of breath left in her small lungs.

I SAW THE DEVIL AND HE ASKED ME FOR WANDHAM CASTLE!

JYLA

Set upon the highest rack was the olive plant, just as Jyla suspected. For once back from training or leave her husband would eat the plant bare