The Lord of Blight’s Field was dying.

He lay propped up on a dozen pillows in his bed, surrounded by wise men and doctors. None of them could do a damn thing for him. The Lord snorted and moved restlessly, crossing one arm over his chest. “Bring me my son!” he cried.

The Crown Prince arrived shortly, an impatient look on his face. “What is it, Father?”

“No love for an old man,” said the Lord. “You disappoint me.”

The Crown Prince sighed and shook his head, a tumble of riotous brown curls shaking. “We have been estranged since Mother died, as you well know. Now is not the time to expect familial miracles.”

The Lord leaned forward in his bed. “How go the crops of Blight’s Field?”

“As usual, 30-40% of them will die. As for the rest, the yield is lower due to the massive rains. There will be starvation across the land. I ask permission to bring out the Guard.”

“Denied. Show mercy with the commoners, and they will repay you with respect.”

“They’ll respect my fist,” the Crown Prince snarled, holding up a clenched fist to the skylight bleeding October light. “We simply don’t have enough food. Oromar and Killzone Duchies have their own crop problems and can’t supply us. I’ve been to Oromar City on a wining-and-wenching tour. They’re eating their old people and babies there. The hookers say odds are 3 to 2 that a rebellion will break out in Oromar.”

“But not the Killzone Duchies?”

“Never. The Black Enforcers stand guard there. They pluck out intestines for the crime of graffiti writing. They won’t hesitate to do worse to hungry rioters.”

The Lord sighed. “Blight’s Field is truly doomed then.”

“I’ve been to see the Sorcerer,” the Crown Prince said in a hushed voice. “He’s still locked up in that tower, by voluntary choice. His gargoyles lapped at my feet with their wet, stone tongues … Disgusting. Anyway, the Sorcerer says there is a way to improve the yield of the surviving crops, but he asks to be made Lord. The daringness of the man! I am Crown Prince! I am next in line for the throne!”

“Oh, really?” said the Sorcerer from the shadows.

Ronald saw Sophie and Clarissa in the Lord’s Kitchens, baking up custard. The two women were lesbian lovers and were fondling one another’s titties in between making the doughy treat. Clarissa had a yeast infection, and when Sophie’s hand came up from feeling her up, there was a white fuzz on her fingertips.

“Disgusting,” said Roland, pursing his lips. “Another yeast infection, Clarissa? Can’t you do better than that?”

Clarissa curtseyed in shock and terror. “Sir Roland! What an unanticipated pleasure to have you visit us! What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to fuck the two of you wenches, but now that I see Clarissa’s condition, my Stalk has wilted. And Sophie’s been eating that pussy, I wager, making her lips foul and unclean. Tis not my lucky day.”

Sophie protested, “I have not been munching the shag carpet, Sir Roland! Clarissa and I are only friends.”

Roland arched a cynical eyebrow. “Then you’re no lesbian?”

“Not I,” insisted Sophie. “I love man-Dick more than any woman alive!”

“Why were you pawing at her breasts, then?”

“We need a man. We’re substituting for male action,” said Clarissa, wiping the sweat of terror off her brow. “It’s not our preference, I assure you.”

“Okay. Fine. I’ll shag Sophie and one of the Puberty Girls. Where are all the Puberty Girls? I don’t see any of them around.”

Sophie looked pleased to be chosen for the romp, but paled on mention of the Puberty Girls. “The Crown Prince has locked them all away for naughty behavior. The Puberty Girls were found flirting with the Guards, who are twice their age. The Crown Prince said … he said …”

“Well? Spit it out.”

“… said that they were nothing but a bunch of nymphomaniacal children. There! I said it!”

Sir Roland reached for his sword and drew it out.

“No!” quailed Sophie and Clarissa. Their boobs were out of their work-dresses and quivered with the threat.

“Relax,” growled Roland. “I’m not going to stick you like a pig. Gods’ know, you deserve it.”

Letting his blade lead him, he went to find the Crown Prince.

Mitchell sat in a mud bath with his friend, Arnold. Mitchell was a portly man with a round face and balding hair. Arnold was a good-looking young man. Ostensibly, they had nothing in common. But their real interests went deeper than that which was apparent. Their real interests centered on sadism and the lashing of prime young beauties. Mitchell had introduced Arnold to this, but Arnold had proven a quick study, catching up with Mitchell in no time. And now …

Holding a glass of red, juicy wine, Mitchell lolled in the mud. The mud was too dense for ripples to stir with their motion. Arnold was cross-legged under the mud layers, and his mind was functioning at top speed. Mentally, he was reviewing last night’s seduction of a female singer who worked in the castle. Her name was Daynie.

“Daynie’s going back to Killzone Duchies if the crops fail here,” Arnold was saying idly. “She has an uncle in Killzone who has a large farm with pigs, goats, and many other animals they can kill for calories. Say, that has a rhythm to it: ‘kill for calories.'”

Mitchell sipped wine. “I’d like to meet this Daynie. Think she’d let me pork her?”

“I doubt it.”

“Ah.”

“Most wenches take time before they’ll let you do the magic beast with them. I’m trying to speed up my seduction, with limited results.”

“You’re always good at wooing the inferior sex,” said Mitchell.

“I used to think so,” said Arnold, clearly flummoxed. “But lately, I’ve had the worst of luck with chicks. They turn a cold shoulder as soon as they see me approaching. I can’t figure it!”

Mitchell set his wine down on the warming pad of a small pile of stones, and relaxed. There was something feral about the man. His overweight slopes and angles resembled a fat wrestler’s bod. And his eyes were small and piggy and black. When he blinked, it was with the slow studiousness of a college professor. The things he could share.

Mitchell said: “Have you whipped this Daynie?”

“Yes. Last night, for the first time. She said she enjoyed it.”

“But did she really?”

“I think so. Her camel’s toe imprint was quite wet when I checked it out with my Stalk. She cried in my arms when we were done making love, however.”

“Emotional flighty cunt.”

“No, she’s normally cold and emotionless. Something about the whip and the Stalk in combination brought out the young girl in her.”

“I’m sure. I’ve been talking to the Sorcerer. He promises me a quarter of Oromar City — which he’ll conquer — if I support him in his rebellion bid. I haven’t decided. What should I do?”

“Sorcerer!” the Crown Prince said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

The Sorcerer detached from the shadows. He slinked over to the bed with the withering Lord in it. “I am here to press my claim to the throne.”

“There you are!” said Sir Roland, stroking his mustache handlebars. His sword was out. For an unknown reason, there were no personal guards in the Lord’s private chambers.

“Who, me?” the Crown Prince said in surprise.

“I’ll teach you a lesson,” Roland said.

“Stay thy sword,” said the Sorcerer, raising one hand. A colored rainbow light emitted from his open palm. The deep wrinkles in his hand were lit up like crevices in a landscape. “The Crown Prince is under my protection.”

“I don’t need your protection,” he huffed.

“Yes,” said the Sorcerer, stepping closer. “You do. Sir Roland, put away your sword before I imprison you in a block of ice. Magic beats sword in wand-sword-paper games, you know.”

Sir Roland hesitated, then sheathed his sword. “I come for the key to the tower of the Puberty Girls.”

“I come for the key to the empire,” said the Sorcerer.

“I’m empty-handed for both of you, I’m afraid,” the Crown Prince retorted. He stepped forward, wearing a frilly outfit with giant cuffs and anklet-cuffs. “The Sorcerer is plotting a rebellion. He needs an army to back him. I hear he’s asked Mitchell, and others, to join him.”

“Treason!” gasped Sir Roland.

The Sorcerer smiled thinly. “I have the power to back my words. That makes me an official source. I ask the two of you one last time: Will you help me to the throne, or hinder me?”

“Hinder!” said one.

“Hinder!” said the other.

The Lord struggled to sit up in bed.

The Sorcerer cast a spell of magic darts. Hundreds of glowing darts appeared fixed in the air, then with a wave of his hand the darts were launched into flight. Several darts impacted the Crown Prince’s forehead, killing him instantly. Sir Roland was likewise pincushioned by light — dead. But the most grievous array of darts was reserved for the Lord of Blight’s Field: he was hit by over a hundred glowing missiles of death, and he instantly went into death spasms.

The Sorcerer stepped forward.

“I am the new Lord of Blight’s Field. Worship me, and anoint my feet with rare perfumes…”

the end