View source for The Oracle's Prophecy

[[Category:Bardic Runners Up]][[Category:2005 Bardics]]
By: Xaviere
Posted on: August 26, 2005


If there was any way to describe how Grabbard de Norque, Esq., part-time
Dawnstrider, felt at the moment, it could probably be summed up in a single
phrase:

"I utterly HATE him."

"Pardon, squire?"

Bostick the Apprentice Locksmith's voice, with its pitch varying in the throes
of adolescence, drew the Vizier out of his reverie.

It also became apparent to Grabbard that the entire shop was staring at him.

"Just the general purpose lock and bolt at the two for the price of one deal,
squire?"

"Ah... yep." It was probably in his best interests to leave the premises with
all haste. After stroking his goatee beard thoughtfully, in an attempt to shrug
off his faux pas, Grabbard waited for the apprentice to cut a set of keys.

Nevertheless, it was true. He did hate him. The Sultan, that was, not the
spotty adolescent going through a period of growth spurts, voice-breaking and
teenage angst as everybody in the shop had assumed. Everything that he had been
working for, the referendums he had demanded, the debates he had drawn up, the
sheer proof of the fact that there was enough backing for a war with Mhaldor -
all cast aside in one fell swoop by the Sultan and his supporters.

They WOULD NOT go to war. They WILL NOT go to war.

And the Church! The Church! The Prelates, with their shining hats and pillars
of religious text, preaching the word of Harmony and Compassion to the masses.
A war would cause discord, chaos, all the things that they were against,
despite the amount of 'tickling' that Mhaldor had done to them ('tickling' was
a broad term to reduce the force of a word of something that was more like
'getting strangled by your own intestines').

He tossed a bag of sovereigns over to the apprentice and took the package. He
was already late for a meeting with the other Viziers.

"Oh, and squire, my boss said your wife's chastity belt'll be finished by the
end of the week, he's having a bit of trouble with the padlock, it's all
rusty."

Shrugging off a wave of titters from the lock and key enthusiasts of Shallam,
Grabbard de Norque, Esq. did as he had planned.

He made a swift exit.

Indeed, the meeting was fairly demure, with mere discussions on the state of
orphans in the city, Ashtan's policy on lollipop theft, a mention of Mhaldor
which briefly saw to dash any hope of war, and the economic viability of a
second restaurant on the east side of Shallam, with possible trade routes to
Riparium for fish, as well as the denying of asylum to the Infamous Creesje
Lokien, former state-sanctioned torturer of Mhaldor in her younger years
despite death threats and close negotiations with her headed by Grabbard
himself. The Viziers put in yeas and nays, Grabbard only partially paying
attention, preferring to check the alignment of his Satyri horns in the
reflection of the large mirror behind the Sultan. He stopped when the burly
Troll bodyguard, recently enlisted for the Sultan's protection, gave him a
warning glare.

As the Viziers left the council rooms of the palace, Grabbard lingered behind
for a short while. The Sultan, fat and sleek, for he was a well-fed Rajamala,
took a plump, dripping goose drumstick and devoured it messily, being careful
not to dirty the large emerald signet ring on one finger. This slovenly
creature, too corpulent to be bothered to hone his Magi skills that the
tabloids had duly noted that his elemental staff had been used as a prop for a
central pillar support in the Chrysalis Basilica for the majority of his term
as Sultan.

But then, why not contest him? There was surely enough evidence for a vote of
no confidence. Good idea, but Grabbard had already tried that. Lost by the
smallest of margins, though some vote tampering was suspected. Just another
blow to his political career. Grabbard's confidantes were baffled, his spin
doctors afluster. Appeals at the Temple of Miramar were left unanswered. Even
the public had started losing faith in him. The incident at the locksmith's did
nothing to help his popularity ratings, as well as the oft-reported news that he
was estranged from his wife and pursuing 'other interests'.

He needed advice.

He ignored everything as he trudged through the Mannaseh Swamp, following the
course of the Pachacacha eastwards. A woman in black passed by, giving him a
grim look, but Grabbard ignored her.

They said she was wise. She had lived for a long time. Some said she was a even
a demigoddess.

"Before you say anything, I'm not a tourist," Grabbard announced to a simpering
Xorani wench outside the Oracle's hut. "So you can get rid of the funny accent."
He glanced at the cracked window of the hut. "Tell me, foul crone, is this the
hut of the Oracle Apollonia?"

"That it be, haha, that it BE. Excuse me. Yes it is." The dirt-spattered woman
toed the mud of the swamp ponderously with a claw. "So I guess you don't want
the history and interesting trivia part of the hut and area in pre-Seleucarian
times?"

"No."

"Or a framed prophecy on personalised parchment?"

"No."

"Interested in a calendar dating the events of Achaea for the next hundred
years?"

"No."

"It comes in three different colours, see. You got your Eleusian Green, you got
your Erisian Rainbow, and you got your Mhaldorian Blood Splatter. That last one
comes with a free 'Make war not peace' brooch." She looked up at the Satyr
hopefully.

"No. I'm just here to see her."

"Oh. Fine." The reptilian creature's throat glimmered a faint orange. "That's
right. Nobody notices the small home grown industries any more. It's all your
large shop chains from Cyrene to Shallam ruining the local business like that
old corner shop that used to sell pocketbelts and drying cloths, bloody
capitalist shopkeepers, you make your complaints to your Minister of Trade and
what do they do? BUGGER ALL! And you wonder why you have so many unemployed
people, it's repression by the proud, upstanding masses who seek to take down
the lesser..."

Grabbard quickly ducked inside the hut and was quickly met by the scent of
burning tea leaves. He could still hear the Xoran grumbling about interest
rates at the bank and commodity inflation outside. It was fairly dim within,
but the fragrant smoke clung to him, reflecting what light desired to peek in.
His left hoof twitched as a grey figure appeared from the smoke.

"Hail, he who is Grabbard de Norque, Esquire," the deep, commanding voice of
the Oracle rang out.

Her voice was almost masculine in tone. The Satyr fingered his goatee beard
thoughtfully.

"Speak, or be silent. They await your questions." She held up her hand, palm
facing forward to Grabbard, then rotated it so the palm was flat, as if held
out for something. Grabbard took some sovereigns from his pouch and deposited
them in her hand.

"Will the present Sultan of Shallam ever be contested successfully in the
current climate?" he asked tentatively.

The Oracle bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was barely
audible, and even the vapid mutterings of the Xoran outside could be heard.
After a moment, she opened her eyes and replied, "The outcome is unlikely."

More sovereigns flowed into her hand. "Will the present Sultan of Shallam ever
be changed?"

The Oracle closed her eyes again in deep thought, but her response was faster
this time. "The outcome is likely," her uncompromising voice intoned.

Grabbard cocked his head slightly, revealing a pair of well-kept horns on his
head. This was an interesting prospect. He only wanted to ask two questions,
but a third sprung to mind, an ambitious strike. He pulled out more sovereigns.

"Will I ever be Sultan of Shallam?"

Without a pause, the Oracle stared at the Satyr squarely. Her eye sockets were
enveloped in shadow, but they were not without a hint of fear. The next time she
spoke, it was almost a whisper, dulcet in manner, almost Achaean.

"Certes."

That was good news. The Oracle was never wrong, but nobody knew where or whom
she got her prophecies from. Grabbard took heart in the fact that the tenure of
the current Sultan would not be forever. But how was he going to become Sultan
himself? Should he trust the Oracle, so certain in her reply? He inclined his
head politely and turned to leave.

"HUNGER, I CRAVE, I CRAVE!" came a screech from the direction of the Oracle.
Grabbard twizzled around to see what on Achaea was going on.

A sudden gust of wind was swirling around the small hut, blowing the smoke out
of the cracked window. The robes of the Oracle were billowing out like the ship
sails, and her head was thrown back, revealing her face. She was young, looking
not more than twenty summers, this woman who had lived forever. But the voice
that ran out of her mouth was hoarse, scratchy, and surely from the pits of
Golgotha.

"I CRAVE, I EAT, I DIE!" she screamed, the wind smashing tea cups and ornaments
around the room. Grabbard wondered why the Xoran outside did not come in to see
all the commotion.

The Oracle pulled her head forward and pointed a claw-like finger at Grabbard.
Her eyes were blazing scarlet orbs of holocaust fire.

"FROM OUT OF THE FRYING PAN, AND INTO ANOTHER FRYING PAN! THE CREATURE WAITS!"
She threw her arms into the air and cackled maniacally.

When the Oracle finally recovered, her visitor was already back in the Jewel of
the East, half-pondering her answers, and half-fuming at a proposal announced to
the city that the thugs that resided in the sewers had been, and he quoted at
the meeting, "been extricated from the city.". This of course was untrue, and
merely a lie put forward to increase morale. It had even been rumoured that the
thugs were working for the Sultan.

Perhaps life in Shallam would be better if he was Sultan, Grabbard thought. But
how? The Oracle said it was unlikely that the present Sultan would be removed
via a contest, and certainly not by stepping down voluntarily. Absolute power
was far too attractive.

It was attractive.

Grabbard looked at his whip, hung sombrely on a peg, his dirks sheathed and
dry. His tongue suddenly lapped against two sharp, pointed fangs. A drop of
what tasted like prefarar splashed over his tastebuds. He was a Dawnstrider,
yes. But foremost, he was a Serpent. Tricky, cunning, and sneaky. The idea of
assassination had always pulsed through his venom sacs. But that was all in the
past. He had recanted that lifestyle of torture and death.

He glanced out of the council chamber window. The night guard were grabbing
quick drinks at the Silverdrop, their drunken slurring audible over the warm
air. The Sultan had to be removed, by hook or by crook.

Grabbard knew the exact crook for the job. He also knew the time and the place
to do it.

<nowiki>************************************</nowiki>

"Grabbard, my old mush, my old mucker, where are you taking me? It's the middle
of the Miramar Midsummer Festival and you're dragging me up to the top of the
highest tower of the palace when we could be pulling some fit Sirens at the
Church dance and drinking ourselves silly!"

The Sultan, bottle of Amalayan red at right forepaw, a wheel of cheese in the
other, staggered drunkenly up a spiral staircase. It was the height of the
summer festivities, and Grabbard had inquired upon the Sultan, who was
well-known for being a wine connoisseur, upon a new variety recently pressed
from the Amalayan winery. The Sultan, being a sucker for smugness, readily, but
not in the throes of sobriety, agreed to see this new bottle.

"I must say, Grabbard, it's mighty odd for wine to be kept in a tower. It's
usually a cellar, isn't it?"

"This is a particularly odd wine. Not far now."

He winced as venom leaked from his fangs. The Sultan had once again failed to
listen to his debate for the war against Mhaldor, the crying mothers who were
forced to give up their illegitimate children as orphans to the Church, Crazy
Hakhim's poor work conditions standing in the middle of the cesspit that was
the Medina. Animal rights for old elephants and more.

He could do so much more. Shallam would not just be the Jewel of the East, she
would be the Queen of the World.

"Just through this door."

Grabbard cocked his horns in a mock bow as he allowed the slob of a Sultan to
clamber through. He knew exactly what would happen next.

"GRABBARD! COME QUICK! THERE'S A CITY ENEMY HERE!"

With a swift flick of his hairy wrist, Grabbard slipped his whip around the
Rajamala's neck and pulled. A strangled, feline yelp came from the throat of
the Sultan as he clawed at the garroting weapon, suffocating him.

"I think the majority of us can agree that you're the only threat to the
security of this city," snarled the Satyr, letting the oversized cat fall to
the floor. "I brought somebody to show you what the thugs of this world, the
Mhaldors of all, Shaitan and Apollyon combined, oh, wait, that's just Sartan,
well, what they can do."

"You treasonous old goat!" shrieked the Rajamala. "You can't do this to me, I'm
the Sultan!"

"You WERE the Sultan. You won't be after Creesje's finished with you. She's
transcendent in Mhaldor's tactics. Such a shame you won't be here to find out
the end. Dear Creesje awaits."

With a great cloven hoof, Grabbard leapt up into the air and clobbered the
Sultan with a massive headstomp. The Rajamala slumped to the ground,
unconscious. Only the rattling carts of the kitchen delivery courier travelling
into the service entrance of the palace could be heard from down below, wafting
in through the window.

Creesje Lokien, clad in the deepest black, wasp-waist corseted in leather,
squatted over the prone Sultan with a large axe in one hand. "Not even a shield
tattoo to defend himself. How would you like him after?" her sultry Sireni voice
whispered.

"Get rid of him. I don't care how. I don't want to see any bit of the useless
hulk ever again, otherwise I think I might go mad."

"Is my asylum promised, my sweet?"

"Consider it done. I'll have the papers for you after the election. Just as we
agreed. Get rid of him."

Creesje smiled. It was bred of cruelty, reflecting her grim beauty and blood
red lips. Lapping her teeth, she blew gently on to Grabbard's lips, drawing him
in for a single, full, kiss. He smiled as she moved back, placing two fingers on
his mouth. Out of a canvas backpack she pulled out a thin steel hook and
proceeded to insert it up one of the Sultan's nostrils. That was the last that
Grabbard remembered before he politely closed the door.

<nowiki>************************************</nowiki>

And so he was Sultan.

It was a fairly uncompetitive contest. The previous Sultan had for some reason
'gone inactive', and Grabbard, as the 'Top Satyr' for the third year running
and the only one with a name they could pronounce and spell with ease was
certainly destined for election.

Although his initial policies were questioned, such as the granting of asylum
to Creesje Lokien and the compulsory servings of asparagus for the under 5s,
after the first few days, Shallam saw in Grabbard a strong leader who was not
over a certain weight for once. The city could focus on important issues.

Grabbard had taken the step to invite the Seneschal of Hashan to dinner to
discuss relations between their two cities. It was fairly informal, with few
waiters, bodyguards and only the long table of the dining room occupied by
them. He was hoping to set up a treaty between them that would ensure in Hashan
an ally when the war with Mhaldor was officially declared.

"I must say, my dear Sultan, that starter was positively appetising," the
Seneschal replied, smacking his amphibious lips, for he was a Grook. "What's
next on the menu, before we get down to commodity trade?"

"I don't actually know," Grabbard replied. A waiter swiftly plumped a covered
tray in front of him, and another in the middle of the table. "Smells delicious
though."

"Zis ees... giblet surprise," the waiter said, swiping off the lid. Another
waiter did the same with the Seneschal. "Straight from ze fryin' pan. Ze
kitchen delivery boy found it extra in 'is cart and gave it to ze chef for us."

"My my, this is delicious," the Grook acknowledged, tucking right into the
food, as did the Satyr. "Very juicy, lots of fat though, but stripy. Tiger?"

Grabbard took a large chunk of meat and plunged it into his mouth. He chewed,
then spluttered, and coughed repeatedly.

"Sultan?" the Seneschal said, looking rather concerned at his Shallamese
opposite. "Chew first, then swallow!"

Grabbard was now choking on whatever piece of food had got lodged in his
throat. The Troll bodyguard rushed forward, and with a weighty hand, slammed it
into the Satyr's back. He fell forward, stunned. As his jaw crashed on to the
table, a loud clatter was heard as a small green object landed in front of him,
balancing on top of the plate.

It was an emerald signet ring.

Grabbard jumped up suddenly and staggered backwards, pointing at the ring
frantically and muttering gibberish words in Satyri to himself.

"Grabbard?" the Seneschal repeated, moving towards the babbling man.

The Satyr lunged at his plate and grabbed the contents. The half-eaten meal
consisted of lungs, in which were contained intestines and stomach wrapped
around the heart and slices of brain of whatever creature it used to be. He
took the plate and smashed it against the wall. He lifted the lid off the plate
in the middle of the table.

Staring back at him was the decapitated head of the last Sultan, pierced eyes
spewing fountains of blood like tipped-up amphorae, the nose giving birth to a
glacier of coagulating crimson fluid. It was piked upon several cocktail
sticks.

"NO!" he cried, pulling at his horns and beard. "I TOLD HER I DIDN'T WANT TO
SEE HIM, THAT WAS THE LAST I SAW, THE LAST!"

He stumbled back, cowering from the plate.

"CREESJE! CREESJE! WAIT! DON'T DO IT! STOP!" he wailed, holding his arms up to
some imaginary person. "IT'S WRONG, DON'T DO IT!" Grabbard clutched his belly.
"He's screaming inside, I can feel him moving, struggling, pleading..."

The Seneschal was at a loss of what to do. He told a waiter to wake up Handel,
Mariposa, anybody with skills in the art of healing. The Sultan was evidently
suffering from a manic episode.

"Out of the frying pan, into another frying pan, curse you, Oracle! You tricked
me! You TRICKED ME! Creesje, wait, I didn't mean for this to happen, I could've
sorted it another way, why did you have to get rid of him, vivisect like that
afterwards, don't throw it out the window... why..." Tears flowed down his face
as he curled up into a ball in the far corner of the room, rocking back and
forth.

<nowiki>************************************</nowiki>

It is the morning in Shallam today.

The sun smiles, the people grin, knowing that their new Sultan will do them
justice. He was elected not so long ago after the old Sultan went inactive.

The palace doors are also locked. Only a few have access to visit, and there is
only one permanent resident.

He does not do very much, but sits in the tallest tower, curled up in a corner,
staring into space.

He keeps himself awake by secreting camus, allowing it to dribble on to his
legs, for his arms are bound in a tightened straitjacket. Nobody will undo it.

Doves fly in through the window with food. Those are his only visitors, other
than the clanging noises of the kitchen carts as they pass by his window.

Nobody says prayers for him. His beard is long, his horns unrubbed, his hooves
unkempt.

And all he can mutter before he finally passes out into restless slumber is
something that sounds like,

"...the creature waits, the creature waits..."