Manticore Rampant

Ch 1 - Position Vacant

The throne room was built to impress. It soared. Its lofty heights were lost in shadow. Vaults vaulted and arches arched. Sculptures, statues and busts were plonked anywhere such things could conceivably be plonked. Gilding glittered and chandeliers shone. The whole shebang was clearly tailormade to wow the supplicants, to gobsmack the simple folk and to cow the noble savages—in short, to show those lesser folk come to pay homage at the court of the monarch precisely why it was they were the ones paying, while the House of Irm was very much the payee.

Which was great and all, if you happened to be a noble savage or a supplicant or, as was more often the case, some barn-scented, slack-jawed yokel from the backend of nowhere, who thought the concept of a window was the very height of technical innovation.

But if you weren't—if you happened to be the more worldly type, who'd seen a thing or two and wasn't about to be impressed by a bit of bling or the odd ancient god with his tackle out—then the principal overriding impression of the decor was very much that of 'pretentious arseholes with more money than taste'.

Slash fell into the latter category. And, given he'd personally known some of the pretentious arseholes in question, he fell pretty hard.

As, no doubt, did the other two standing with him before the throne—the empty throne, which had been that way now for the best part of a decade. The three were acquainted, but only in passing, having all served in the Irmshield—the monarch's personal guard—at various stages of their careers. Now, however, with the old queen dead, the elder prince abdicated and the younger not yet of age, there was of course no Irmshield in which to serve, and with its gradual dissolution each of them had gone their separate ways. Slash hadn't seen either of them for a few years. And couldn't for the life of him imagine why they were all here.

"Any idea what this is about?" he asked, self-consciously straightening his jacket. While his uniform was in perfectly good order, something about the place always made him feel just that little bit underdressed. Perhaps, despite his experience and position, there was a little more of the yokel in him than he cared to admit.

Slash was a Dragon. Which is to say, he belonged to the Dragon Legion. Which did used to have dragons. Once. A long time ago. But not anymore. Now, they had a picture of a dragon, on their banner. Which was not anywhere near as impressive, or useful for incinerating entire enemy legions or cities or presumptuous people with the wrong combination of genes and ambition, but did look nice when waved. Oh, and the name. They still had that too. Leaving aside these pretensions and military affiliations, Slash was a human.

"Not a one," replied Hobe.

Hobe was a dwarf. Which is to say, he was actually a dwarf. Short, strong, handy with a shovel, keen on beards—all the usual dwarf stuff. A good soldier, too. No banners, though, because dwarfs thought that kind of thing was girly. In Slash's experience, Dwarfs were not big on girly. Not even the girl ones.

"I have my suspicions," said Carri.

Carri was an elf. Which is to say, pretty much constitutionally incapable of uttering words such as "Beats me" or "No idea." Or of admitting to fallibility or ignorance in any respect. She was also tall and willowy and had the requisite pointy ears and smug face and so on. On the topic of banners, Slash knew elves were, in principal, against them—why let the bad guys know you're coming? Or tie up a hand that could otherwise be usefully employed in holding a knife or bow or garrotte? Their egos were also sufficiently inflated not to feel the need for a pretty picture on a stick.

The three soldiers' ignorance (acknowledged or otherwise) as to why they were there was not to last long. With a silken rustle, a elderly woman draped in simple yet obviously fine robes emerged from the curtains behind the throne and made her way to the front of the dias, where she stood looking down on them.

"The Nanny," breathed Hobe, and with a shock of recognition, Slash realised the dwarf was right. This was indeed the Nanny, the legendary figure who had raised three generations of monarchs and, in the form of the younger prince, was working on a fourth. While she might play no official role in the running of the kingdom, only a fool would dismiss the influence of the woman who had wiped the noses and smacked the bums of the men and women who'd ruled for the past fifty years and more.

"Yes," she said. "Hello, dearies." Strong and clear despite her age, her voice still carried melodious traces of her long-ago childhood in far off Norlandia. "I suppose you're all wondering why you've been summoned here."

"Surely, it's because—"

"Oh, hush, girl. That wasn't an invitation to speculate. I don't know, you elves, always thinking you know everything. Just shush. Now, no doubt you think you're here because with the young prince almost of age, the Irmshield is to be reinstated. You think you're going to be given you your old jobs back, don't you?"

The self-satisfied look on Carri's face suggested that was exactly what she thought. Slash hadn't a clue why he'd been summoned, but in the absence of any indication as to whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, fell back on the very first strategy every soldier learns from the first day of basic training—dumb silence and a blank look.

"Well, you're wrong," continued the Nanny. "Oh, not about Prince Squelon attaining his majority. The young fellow is indeed almost of an age to take the throne—to don the Winged Crown and be draped with the Mane of Might. In short, to become the Manticore and assume control of the kingdom. Heaven knows, the place is in need of a firm hand. The thing is, there's a bit of a problem."

"Is there some concern for the prince's safety?" asked Slash, grasping his sword hilt. "Has some nature of threat been made to his his royal person?" The enticing prospect of dodging wall duty for a night or two loomed before him. "Naturally, it would be both my honour and privilege to offer my personal protection. He has but to say the word and my life is his to command."

"No, no," said the Nanny, flapping her hand. "Nothing like that. Why do you wretched dragons always have to be such drama queens? I can assure you, Squelon is perfectly safe."

"A rival claimant to the throne, then?" asked Carri. "Some heretofore unknown royal bastard, freshly come to light and trying to assert their birthright?" A silver dagger appeared in her hand, as if by magic. "Such problems can be made to disappear as quickly as they appeared."

The old woman rolled her eyes. "Put that thing away, young lady, before you hurt somebody. I realise you lot are soldiers, but you know, there's something to be said for the 'listen first, stab later' approach. You might want to try it out sometime."

"Well, then," said Hobe, leaning on his axe, "tell us. What is this problem? What is it that prevents Prince Squelon from ascending the throne and assuming his rightful place as the Manticore?"

"Well, it's really quite simple. You see, not to put too fine a point on it"—her shoulders slumping a little, the Nanny sighed—"I'm afraid he's an idiot."