Ingaiko

“The King is dead — long live the King.” The droning tones, ongoing for four days now, filled the palace. The crowds outside had not lessened and the chanting grew more gloomy with each passing hour. The people had lost much.

Jekahidi had been a good King. His reign had been long, too long for my liking. I believe in new blood. His way were the way of peace and his ruling the way of benevolence. The empire had grown much during his rule — 16 Imperial years — a month in some quarters, 1600 years in others. Timing is a matter of perspective in a universe grown so vast.

His Royal Highness, Light of the Known Universe, Jewel of the Sky, Son of Osiris, had died a violent death at the hands of an unknown assassin. There were whispers that he who killed with such skill equaled only Ingaiko, son of Jekahidi. The thought was appalling that son would annihilate father and in such bloody circumstances.

Yet more appalling still was the violence in which the deed was done. Those that witnessed the ending moments speak with horror of bloody entrails scattered across the good King’s throne. It is strange that the King was in his throne room at such an early hour.

He was an early riser, the King. He went galloping his steeds and walking his dogs. He was passionate about the lesser life forms, an interest I looked at with disdain. The women of his harem were left to pursue other interests and the politics of court were at an all time high.

The hour of death was not kind to him. It needs to be repeated that his bloody entrails were scattered across the throne. His heart was carved in two, mincemeat for the dogs he loved. His torso bore the marks of savagery; a kukri cutting and stabbing all that it beheld. A primitive and savage instrument; the one that used it with such skill and hatred was a rare one indeed. Few could wield such a weapon — indeed only the Weapon Master, the Keeper of the Keys and Ingaiko, son of Jekahidi had knowledge of its skills.

There were whispers of treason everywhere about the court. In roaming, these last four days, there had been the sudden silence of those that spoke of things it was better left unsaid. But I well knew the content of their whispers. It would be death to those that whispered these things when Ingaiko was King.

Now the funeral was approaching. The drone grew deeper. “The King is dead — long live the King.” He lay in state at the Imperial Palace, not far from the throne room where he was so grievously brought to halt. What was it that his assassin was so vengeful of?

Dare one think of these things? Yet they must be thought of. Jekahidi was a good King. Would Ingaiko be the same?

There were rumors, a rain of rumors — for the circumstances were the kind that bespoke of a new evil in the land. The assassin would be found — there was talk of the harem master, of jealousy over a maiden fair. But the harem master was a eunuch and such strength was not his. He was a mild mannered man.

The Keeper of the Keys came to mind. A deadly foe should any cross his path yet mild mannered too. He did not raise sword to any man without much consideration. What would be between him and the Jewel of the Sky that would drive him to such lengths? It would be a problem worth pondering and one would have to delve deep to find such reason.

Then Mogash, the Weapons Master came to mind — a small and wiry man of mixed descent. Half man, half beast of Haoratiki. Few could best him. Only Ingaiko had tried — and the result was never known. It was possible Mogash had taught Hellvamu the Hunter the skill of the dagger weapon. Lovers, it was whispered, two such manly specimens — it was hard to believe. These things would have to be investigated.

It was time. The drums began. Somber. Slow. Redolently echoing the grief of a milliard life forms. It was time for me to take my place in the procession.

Dressed in black to show my mourning, I walked slowly, half bent, not intent on showing my face. The corridors of the Imperial Palace were hushed, only the sound of the footsteps of those making their way to join the last journey of the majestic King of the universe.

The King’s body was hoisted high — no further harm could come to him. His spirit now looked down on what once was his domain. The coffin was dressed in royal reds, empirical blues and the rich greens of life everlasting. Symbolism was all. The Guards of Honor that were to escort him down the long way of the Avenue of Wisdoms were in full ceremonial dress. A King’s burial is not an everyday event.

I made my way to the top of the procession. I was an important man. I took my place and those around me bent to pay me homage. Nothing was said as is the rule of the dead. Until the King’s burial no word would be spoken. Only the chant of the dead.

“The King is dead — long live the King.”

It seemed that the mood of the heavens was also a somber one. A soft drizzle began to fall and the flag atop the coffin grew darker with wetness upon it. The chant grew louder as we began to move. The gates of the palace were opened and we began to walk the long walk of the dead. It would be a long day. We would reach our destination only in the early hours of the afternoon. Then there would be the burial service, the body being lowered into the ground only as the first moon of Leleith rose to meet the night.

And then there would be the prayers.

It would be a long day. And I did not look much forward to it. But these are the duties of state. And I was born into them. As my father and my father’s father.

And then, because some modicum of respect was called for and because it was a sad day, I focused my mind on events, and the events passed quickly and before I knew it, we had reached the ground that is called ‘The burial place of the Kings.’

It was sparse with sand and shrub, arid and barren and nothing lay here but the spirits of Kings long passed on. I viewed it and wondered how it would feel to lie buried here with the Kings of the universe.

I led the way to the giant Cube of Cora. It was as well that I was fit, for it takes a man of stamina to mount the Cube. Those that followed me, the sons of royalty, the family of the King, the Royal Guard were not as limber as I.

It was another hour to the top and there it was we lay him.

He would lie there until the first moon of Leleith crested the horizon and then he would be lowered into the abyss.

Still there was the chanting. “The King is dead — long live the King.” And I grew tired of it.

But I was patient. Affairs of state would wait. Tomorrow is another day.

The moon rose. The guards lowered the body and finally we heard the screeching of the carrion down below as the body went to where all bodies go. The dust of the cosmos to the dust of the cosmos.

The signal was given. The chanting stopped. And slowly, slowly, I heard it fade into the distance as all those behind us knew that the King was laid to rest.

At last it was time to meet the eyes of others. For no eye contact is allowed in times of mourning and so I turned and grasped the hand of Toya, sister to the King. She looked at me and there was no kindness in her look. Toya always had her own ideas.

A hug from Krisma, first daughter of Ingaiko and she cried as she held me. I soothed her and told her all would be well. Her safety was assured. No assassin would go near her. She was the apple of her father’s eye.

It was another hour there and then I deemed it suitable to halt the time of mourning. Four days, Imperial time is a long time and to me it seemed especially long. So I called a halt, declared it time to begin with the reign of Ingaiko and started the long walk home. I heard the silence then. These people of mine were not looking forward to the rule of Ingaiko.

It was a long walk home and even my spirits were dampened by the time we reached the palace. Midnight had come and gone and I would sleep late into the morning. There are times when official duties can wait.

It was noon before I rose to meet the sun and give some serious thought to who would take the blame of the assassin. The people would demand justice. And there were so few that it could be.

It had to be someone on the inside. There was no doubt about that. A fool could see it. And this matter would not go away until the perpetrator was found. The skill of the attacker, the weapon used, the location in the throne room, the time of day — only one trusted would have that proximity — all told of one close to the throne. And there were a limited number.

Mogash would make a worthy opponent and he was an embarrassment to the throne with his appetite for young boys. It was even worse than his perversion with the animals of the realm. Yet, he was valuable to the throne, a man of war, skilled in weapons — it would be a pity to lose him.

And with Jekahidi gone, peace could not be assured. I had heard the rumors round me. Ingaiko, they said, was a man of war, and he would bring bloodshed to the Empire. The Empire had grown soft and thought of war was not an appetite anymore. Men would need to be trained, hardened, brutalized and savaged. Without Mogash to lead and teach them, war would not be possible.

It would be a pity to lose Mogash.

What of Hellvumu? It might be said that Mogash taught him but there would be fury from the half-man, half beast and one did not want one’s Weapon Master to hold resentment against one.

No, it fell to the Keeper of the Keys. He must play the scapegoat. There would be another Keeper of the Keys. Indeed, the fifth son of Ingaiko would make an excellent candidate. Obedient, loyal with just that streak of cruelty that him such a joy to behold.

The keeper of the keys it would be.

I rolled out of bed, and pulled the cord that would summon the royal bed-keeper to my side. He entered my chamber immediately and with him was the finest raiment, that worthy of a King.

“Long live the King,” he said to me, and bowed deep.

I looked at him and smiled.

It was going to be an interesting day for much was to be done. The King’s army had to be prepared for war. Mogash would be given first honors in the land — and Hellvamu, his lover would be one of many. Mogash was a useful man.

And there was the royal family. They would have to be dealt with, perhaps sent to the second moon of Leleith for an extended holiday. They would have to grow used to the new order of things and learn respect for the battle skills of His Royal Highness, Ingaiko, Light of the Known Universe, Jewel of the Sky, Son of Osiris. That respect had been sorely missed before and I had grown in deep resentment as there were whispers to my father of my deeper perversions. It was not for nothing that I had killed him.

I laughed then, as I rose to meet the day, for I, Ingaiko, would rule with an iron fist.