Grumble and Gasp: Of Crowns and Carrion Birds - Chapter 1 Part 2
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Of Crowns and Carrion Birds – Chapter One Part 2: Dead Queens and Worse Things
by Brude Bowyer
Captain Grumle’s old knees painfully took the stairs three at a time and crossed corridors in a near sprint. Torchlight trembled on the stone as he charged past lesser men. Clerks, servants, a junior adjutant or two, all of whom had the good sense to hug the walls and keep clear. Even the royal guards at the Queen’s antechamber, typically so rigid they’d sneer at a meteor, wilted under his glare.
Especially them.
He reached the royal bedchamber doors. They gaped open, flanked by men who knew him well enough not to salute or meet his eyes right now. Inside, the air felt thick, humid, clotted with the scent of lilies and flop sweat.
He entered.
The Queen’s bed was the centerpiece, absurdly large and trimmed with enough velvet to clothe a battalion. At its center, Her Majesty lay posed in the style of saints, hands folded, eyes shut, cold and beautiful. The skin of her cheeks had already gone waxen, a pale counterpoint to the midnight blue of her nightgown.
For a moment, he stood with his spear angled at nothing, breath coming sharp through his nose. His hands trembled moment. He willed them steady.
“My Queen,” he managed, and the title rang flat and thin in the bedchamber’s hush.
There were others in the room: two physicians, sweating in their uselessness; a handful of palace guards standing equally useless and shamefaced in the corners; and, in the farthest shadow, a pair of armsmen wrestling with something not quite human.
That something wore black feathers and blood, smeared in ribbons from beak to clavicle. It looked like a crow torn from the pages of a storybook and hammered into man-shape. The two guards had Gasp’s wings, if they could still be called such, pinned cruelly behind his back. His head hung limp, but his eyes were open and alive, flickering with that mean, theatrical intelligence that Grumle had always found infuriating.
For fifteen years, this creature had served the queen as her chief spy and assassin. Grumle had long since made peace with the need for such services, but had never learned to tolerate the bird itself.
Grumle ignored him, eyes only for the Queen. He set his spear against the nearest post and crossed the room in three anguished strides.
He knelt at the Queen’s bedside. Heedless of propriety, he touched her hand. Cold, but not yet stiff.
“My Queen,” he whispered, so soft it wouldn’t have woken even the living.
A sound clawed its way from his throat, half snarl, half sob. It surprised him. He pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, crushing the sound away. He’d stood beside her during both rabbit wars, the diresnail horde invasion, and three assassination attempts. Not once did he let the mask of decorum slip. The thought disgusted him, and he leaned in, shaking her shoulder. Not gentle now, not kind.
“My Queen, wake up! My Queen... Lilly, dear God, open your eyes, girl!” His voice grew rough, the words spilling past the guards, past the watching servants, past even the black-feathered thing in the corner.
Her head lolled in answer. A trickle of spittle, or something clearer, glinted at the corner of her mouth. He wiped it away. It didn’t matter if they saw the gesture; she’d never accept being anything less than perfect, and Grumle was damned if he’d let them gawk at her now.
The physician cleared his throat. “Captain, the, ah, circumstances—”
Grumle rounded on him, eyes gone red. “You will not speak!”
He heard the slap of wings and a laugh like dry kindling. “There’s the old Grumble that I know and love,” said Gasp, in a voice not his own. The creature had always had a disturbing talent for mimicking voices. Seamlessly, he switched to another voice. This one was honeyed, commanding, and unmistakably a perfect impression of the Queen herself. “Captain Grumble, you will not be rude to my healers.”
Grumle’s vision narrowed. He stood and charged across the room to where the guards held Gasp. In a single violent motion, he seized the creature by its feathered throat and yanked its head upright.
“The next breath you exhale in her voice will be your last,” he snarled, the old battle-growl echoing off the marble. “What did you do to her?”
Gasp’s eyes glittered with pleasure, a voice not his own rasping through his constricted throat. “Not my style, old man.” He flexed his beak in a sideways sneer. “Look closer.”
Grumle bashed the creature’s head against the wall twice in rapid succession. “You’re not walking away from this, you feathery sack of—”
“Careful, Grumble.” Gasp’s voice dropped, and for once, it was his own: high and hollow like wind through dry bone. “You’ll ruin your lovely reputation.”
Grumle roared in the corvid’s face, but he loosened his grip just enough for Gasp to breathe freely.
Behind him, one of the armsmen spoke, hesitant. “Captain, the Queen’s wineglass was empty. The Royal Taster never saw it brought in.”
“Poison?” Grumle said, still staring Gasp down.
The armsman nodded. “Fast-acting. She never made a sound.”
“I would venture to guess hemlock,” the physician added, licking his lips nervously. “Though I’ll need more time to be sure.”
Gasp guffawed in the voice of a court jester. “She always knew how to exit with class.”
Grumle bounced the corvid’s head against the wall again, this time hard enough to rattle teeth, if it had any. Feathers drifted in lazy spirals to the carpet. “You’re going to die for this. I’ll see to it.”
Gasp wheezed a laugh. “If I had killed her, I’d have done it in broad daylight, messily, preferably in front of an audience.” He jerked his head toward the Queen’s body. “This? This is boring.”
Grumle pulled back to strike him again, then remembered the stories. How Gasp once slipped fire ants into the Duke of Newgate’s codpiece at a peace summit, just for a laugh. How he’d beheaded a knave in his sleep without waking the Countess he was bedding, and left the man’s head between her legs for her to discover at dawn. How he’d once convinced a foreign dignitary to sign a treaty using nothing but the Minister of Finance’s voice and the signet ring he had removed from the minister with the finger still attached.
Gasp didn’t do quiet. Gasp didn’t clean.
So who the hell had?
Before he could ask, a new sound cut through the chamber: the measured, triple-tap of boots on marble, each step precisely louder than the last. The doorguards parted for Prince Lucien and his retinue, three advisors and a dozen hand-picked guards in parade formation.
Lucien was immaculate as always, hair combed and bound with a length of green velvet, even at this hour. His face was pale but unreadable, a polite mask that suited him better than any helmet. He surveyed the scene as if it were a garden party with the wrong guest list. His eyes finally settled on Grumle himself.
The prince had never cared for Grumle, a distaste inherited from his father, the late king. Pierced God, rest his soul. He took in the scene: Grumle’s fist cocked back, frozen above the bleeding corvid-kin, then sneered.
“Captain Grumle,” Lucien said, his voice floating above the crowd. “Your dedication is, as ever, impressive. Though in this case I’m afraid, a little late.”
He looked at the Queen and allowed himself the barest flicker of grief. The courtiers behind him took their cue, all assembling various shades of heartbroken.
Lucien turned to the guards holding Gasp. “Is the assassin secure?”
“As secure as he gets, Highness,” said the armsman, holding back a nervous swallow.
Lucien nodded. He moved with deliberate care around the room, inspecting first the Queen’s body, then the wineglass, then back to Grumle himself. The courtiers shrank back into the hall when he entered, not out of respect, but for fear of being noticed.
“Captain,” Lucien said quietly, “your service has been indispensable. But this is now a matter for the Royal Council.”
Grumle’s hands balled into fists. “With respect, Highness, the Queen’s Guard does not relinquish jurisdiction over—”
Lucien cut him off with a slight smile. “You are of course welcome to remain as an advisor. But let the record show that from this moment, the investigation is firmly in my care.”
He looked down at the Queen, then away, and for a moment Grumle saw something unreadable flicker behind the Prince’s eyes, sadness? Calculation? Or maybe just the weight of a life lived under the shadow of another.
“You are dismissed Captain. See that you get some rest. We’ll need your statements at first light..”
Grumle, too numb to resist, let himself be guided out. As he passed, Gasp craned his battered head to leer at him, a glint of conspiracy buried in the black.
“Careful out there, Grumble,” the corvid whispered. “There’s more poison in this castle than the cellars could hold.”
Grumle ignored him, but the words stuck, cold and barbed, somewhere between his ribs.
The doors shut behind him with a whisper of velvet and the sound of his world quietly coming apart.
The corridor outside the Queen’s chamber was a tunnel of whispers and moving shadows. Grumle stalked down it in a trance, spear in hand and the taste of copper and lilies still in his mouth. The palace always had a way of feeling hollow at three in the morning, but tonight it felt stripped, like someone had gone through with a bone saw and scraped all the flesh out of it, leaving only the gristle and the wet shine underneath.
He made it two turns before someone caught up. The footsteps were light, but the voice was all parade ground.
“Captain.”
Grumle didn’t break stride. “Adjutant Vermane.”
He didn’t need to look to recognize the cadence, every syllable sanded down to perfect discipline.
Adjutant Calto Vermane fell in step, matching Grumle’s long stride instantly, like a living metronome. He wore a new chain of office over his uniform, each link a tiny badge of authority, polished so bright that the torchlight made little starbursts on the wall as he moved.
“A tragedy,” Calto said, his tone official yet sincere. “Truly. I know you served Her Majesty longer than any of us.”
Grumle grunted, which Calto took as “yes” but was meant more like, “If you keep talking, I will pin your mouth shut.” He kept his eyes ahead, but he could feel Calto’s gaze, cool and assessing, like a mortician doing the first measurements for a coffin.
“She ruled Prydein with wisdom and grace. She will truly be missed,” Calto went on, undeterred. “But the Prince is ready. The Council will agree that the coronation should proceed without delay. The realm needs stability now more than ever.”
They passed a pair of guards in the alcove, both new enough that their armor still creaked. Grumle noticed one give Calto a crisp nod, and the other averted his eyes entirely.
“Your point?” Grumle said.
Calto smiled, which was worse than pity. “You’ve earned your retirement, Captain, and given the current circumstances… Well, no one would be surprised if you chose not to finish out the week. Perhaps it’s time for your well-deserved rest. Enjoy the lake. Your... companion, too.”
For the first time, Grumle stopped walking. He turned, slow and deliberate to face Calto head-on. The adjutant was two centimeters shorter and twenty years younger, but carried himself with the confidence of a man who had already rehearsed your eulogy.
“The Prince is dismissing me?” Grumle asked, voice flat.
“Not at all. He’s giving you a gift.” Calto’s hands clasped behind his back, fingers interlaced with the chain of office. “The Prince remembers your years of service fondly. He wants you to leave with dignity. Before the new order makes it... complicated.”
“And if I don’t?” Grumle said. He shifted his grip on the spear, letting the haft creak in his hand.
Calto’s eyes didn’t flicker. “No one expects you to linger. Not in a time of transition. Old habits, old loyalties, it’s humiliating for the old guard, and confusing for the new troops. I’m sure you understand.” He leaned in just enough for his breath to hit Grumle’s chin. “I say this as a friend. Enjoy your sunset, you’ve earned it, Cornelius.”
With that, Calto inclined his head at the precise angle required by decorum, and glided off down the hall. The torchlight turned the back of his head into a tiny golden helmet, flawless and unblemished.
Grumle stood alone, grip so tight on his spear that he barely felt the grain dig into his palm.
He wanted to smash something, but settled for stalking back to his quarters. The corridors were empty, but every creak of his boots sounded like a warning. A new order. Enjoy your sunset.
The door to his room was inaccessible, of course. Doorstop had reclaimed her territory, stretching diagonally from frame to frame like a blockade. She raised her head when she heard him, and for a moment he saw the old fire in her eyes, the readiness, the violence just waiting for a signal.
He tapped her shoulder with the spear. She grumbled, but rolled enough for him to squeeze through. He shut the door behind him, then leaned the spear against the wall and sat down hard on the trunk.
He sat there for a long minute, hands loose between his knees, letting the weight settle. Doorstop watched, chest rising and falling with a calming, steady rhythm.
Finally, Grumle dragged himself to his bed. The mattress was thin, but the space underneath was thick with secrets. He reached down and fished out a battered scrap of parchment. The sketch he’d made years ago, when the Queen was still a princess, and for one brief forbidden moment, his.
He looked at her face. The artist was never going to win any medals for realism. He’d given her too much jaw, not enough cheek, and the hair looked like a brushfire. But the eyes were right. Alive, sharp, a little mischievous, like she was planning to best you in every way that mattered.
Grumle ran his thumb over the lines, smudging the old pencil marks. He tried to picture the palace as it would be tomorrow, with Lucien on the throne and Calto in the wings, everything crisp and polished and dead as a bug pinned to felt.
“Enjoy your sunset,” he muttered, echoing Calto’s voice.
He thought of the Queen as she’d really been back then. Laughing at her own mortality, or making a show of drinking the wine before the taster could. And Grumle, always two steps behind, always the last to get the joke.
He set the sketch on the pillow, and remembered her fierceness, her intelligence, her stubbornness, and her beauty, undiminished by time or the cares of a kingdom.
She hadn’t come to investigate after the elephrat rampaged just outside her chambers. Grumle should have checked in on her then. If he hadn’t been so bone-weary, so whiskey thirsty, maybe she’d still be…
A sob rose in his throat, and this time he didn’t fight it.
Doorstop heaved herself upright and limped to the bedside. She laid her giant head on his feet like a living condolence. He rested his hand on her thick neck, feeling the old scars under the fur, the history written there.
They could just retire. They could just go. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, his head down, and this would all be over.
Grumle closed his eyes. In the dark, the city was still; the corridors oddly quiet, but nothing was over. Not for him.
He owed her that much.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed. Chapter 1 of Grumble and Gasp is available here for your free enjoyment. If you find yourself liking the story and wanting more, the full novel is available on Kindle and Amazon
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