Dismas crawled towards the keep — body shivering, head hanging. Every reach of his arms felt like climbing a ledge, and the burning sensation through his fingertips indicated quite the opposite of warmth.

  ”Where the Hells are all the sentinels of the King?” he said as he coughed up another ball of flem. His throat pinched tight at every swallow — At every near swallow.

  For the first time in his long service to the royal ruler of the kingdom, Dismas glimpsed the impossibly huge doors to his chambers.

  ”H- He-” he uttered before another coughing fit. ”Hhh- Hhhh- elp.”

  This was it. He would die here, atop the mighty mountain, never having met his King — and never finding his true calling.

  Damnit. Fucking damnit. He winced and groaned in pain — and, from the relentless cold, the loss of pain that he felt for most of the climb. I can’t feel my face.

  He was just a stone throw’s reach to the iron gates. And so he launched one — a small enough rock that he gathered just enough willpower to hit that gate, felt like it stood blurry in a distant horizon.

  He had the willpower alright. But none the less, he came spectacularly short of the entrance.

  ”What the fuck,” he said.

  That triggered more coughing, which helped him decide his next move.

  He lay himself flat, not feeling anything any more, so why not?

  Much better. Is it over now?

  ”Exellent throw.”

  What? I’m imagining a voice. An angel? A devil?

  ”You must think I’m a devil, to announce you’re still alive.” The voice appeared closer.

  He thought it sounded awefully familiar, though he could not, for the frail life of him, pinpoint it.

  ”Three Hells, it’s you,” said the voice.

  Me? Who am I? Who dares recognize me at my rock bottom? He wanted to clear his throat, but it seemed to work actively against him.

  The man lifted Dismas with warm arms through the cold air.

  ”Ironic isn’t it, Dismas, that I would find you att your rock bottom, when you finally came to see the King.”

  The man kneeled, as only a weak whisper came from Dismas’s pale lips.

  ”Who are you? I can’t see. I can’t feel. Only a little longer — I’ll be gone.”

  ”Oh, don’t be daft. I — am your King, of course.”

  ”My… King?”

  ***

  The bed was the most comfortable nightly experience ever. But when night was no longer mending his frostbite-

  ”Aaah!” Dismas sat up, threw the covers across the room and examined himself — what limbs were missing. ”Damnit damnit damnit.”

  With that masterful throw, obviously his hands worked alright. Quick as regrets, he looked at his attempt att wiggling his non existing toes.

  ”That Gorv fucking Wilmar — ruined me,” said Dismas, drained of his newfound relief of being alive in a warm bed, in the King’s chambers no less. ”Stumps for legs… I’ve got stumps for fucking legs.”

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  ”Don’t put all your focus on what’s unfixable. How’s that eyesight?”

  Dismas was so frightened, he nearly fell on his fresh stumps.

  ”What the bloody fuck are you doing behind me?” he said, twisting quite disgracefully around in the royal bed.

  His eyesight was quite fine — and what he saw made him rethink his entire life in a split second.

  Hands came closer and closer, waving.

  ”Be still, you fool. You’re falling off.”

  It did probably look like he was well into a not so maticulously planned suicide attempt.

  ”What is your name?” said Dismas. ”And who removed my feet?”

  The King seemed to think for an unreasonable amount of time as his eyes wandered the closed off section of the great hall.

  ”I did,” he said, calmly. ”I must have done it. If anyone else did it, we have some kind of torturer on our hands. Can I trust your eyes to keep a lookout?”

  And to think that he himself was lost. The King seemed to belong in an asylum, at best.

  Dismas raised his eyebrows and kept silent, waiting.

  ”Do I have something on my face?” said the King, oblivious.

  ”Your-”

  ”Oh right, my name! Doesn’t everyone know it by now?” He seemed happy to be asked, like no one actually knew it, or him. ”King Ranvil Braxius. A great pleasure and honor for you, I understand.”

  Ranvil raised his big braid-bearded boulder of a head. He was clearly a proud dwarf. Icevein’s only. He’d probably be declared King of the dwarves if he wasn’t exactly that.

  An almighty disbelief filled Dismas’s all extremeties, culminating in a prickling like a great army of centipedes, which he felt twice throughout his body before uttering a measly;

  ”What?”

  ”Nono, I expect a proper reaction, matching my proper title of course. I-”

  ”How are you living like this!”

  ”Like… this? This is fantastic — my kingdom. I have my servants and- And I can’t forget my trusty ’hand of the King’ — The Stormrider, who always performs his-”

  ”Whoe whoe whoe! Tell me about you two. So you know William Stormrider — actually meeting him in person?”

  Ranvil nodded proudly, smiling wide.

  ”You do know he’s not a dwarf,” Dismas leaned forward in the cozy bed. ”but human, right?”

  ”I wasn’t born yesterday,” said Ranvil, patting Dismas on the head. ”Of course he’s a dwarf, thick beard and all. He’s the best of us! Except me, of course.”

  The humiliation of finding himself crippled and being patted by the brain-broken King Braxius was quickly trumped by this ridiculous new statement. All he wanted now was an escape route. Whatever happened to crowds of people? Angry mobs? A pair of drunkards? He hated the lot of them — but now, at the mercy of the King no less, Dismas really wanted… someone else.

  Damn the stumps hurt.

  ”Are you pissing on my knowledge?” Ranvil frowned as he circled the great hall, hands clasped before his chest.

  Dismas wanted to stay silent. No. He wanted to scream. Mostly though, he wanted to grow his feet back and run like the wind blows.

  ”No,” said Dismas, trying his hardest to look neutral.

  ”Well, good,” said Ranvil. ”Good lad. No spy in sight?”

  The King, eh? It seemed more and more questionable.

  ”Great King Ranvil-”

  ”Ye-es?” he replied, quick as the summer.

  ”Er… Well, I was wondering some-”

  ”Ye-es?”

  Dismas had a hard time disguising his dwarven disgust, winced, and rolled his eyes quick.

  ”-thing,” he said, teeth digging into each other. He calmed down, and asked genuinely; ”Are you the King Ranvil Braxius, who fought the humans — long ago?”

  Fact was, Ranvil looked very much like in the paintings. Every tavern and bar had them. But it can’t be him. Dismas regretted asking. But the yarn had already been spun, and it went about its way, all tangled, cut up, and with more loose ends than it needed.

  ”Soon enough I suppose you’re going to ask what year it is? I’m surprised this is coming out your mouth, Dismas,” said Ranvil, exchanging his frown for a friendly pose, with outstretched arms. ”You see, I have a job for you, one to tug at that nugget of a thought-bucket you have. It’ll be a superb challenge for you. You see, I need an assistant. A reliable, loyal servant. One worthy of my stature, my position.”

  Dismas groaned in his thoughts.

  ”A proper secretary. The perfect job for a cripple. Hard to get used to, I know, but get used to it you must. Do you humbly accept this kingly gift I bestow upon you, former warrior, Dismas?” Ranvil looked puzzled. ”What, by the way, is your last name?”

  ”I… Wow. I- I’m surprised you know my first, for one thing,” said Dismas. He had nothing else to say to this loon, this dimwitted, aloof half-man. This… feet-cleaver.

  ”You’d betterfind it, Dismas.”

  ”What?” he said, flummoxed.

  ”The room in your heart, to accept my exclusive, royal and not least, friendly offer.”

  Ranvil did not sound friendly. Not one bit.