Tales of the Tyrant King

There was once a tyrannical King, who ruled his land with an iron fist. For centuries had his family lorded over the kingdom, and with every passing generation, the crown grew ever more powerful. The King, drunk with power, could not sate his lust for wealth, no matter how many taxes he levied. And so, the King decreed that no longer would there be any taxes. Instead, all that was created within his borders belonged to him, and him alone. Those who created had to earn the right to eat.

“But surely we will starve!” cried the people. 

“Then starve,” his majesty decreed.

The people were plunged into great suffering. Those who worked could barely scrape by. They farmed crops they did not own on lands that were not theirs, forged swords wrongfully owed to the King on anvils owned by the crown. Those who could not work, died. Many grew tired of such treatment, and wished to live in a world free of their plight.

There was a man, no different from any other, who lived in a small village. He plowed his fields, and harvested his crops when they had finally grown. He lived off of a pittance. He could barely afford to live, as did his neighbors. When the King’s decree had come into effect, he threw up his arms in anger. 

“Why even do I bother living?” The man announced in frustration. Life, he felt, was nothing but pain. No matter how he tried, life would only ever hurt him.

When the man spoke to his family, they told him not to give up hope, for even if the sky was bleak, darkness never lasted forever. He did not listen, however. Nay, he believed, there was no hope. He could not end the King’s tyrannical rule, so why should he bother caring?

The man’s neighbors shared quite similar sentiments. When they spoke, they lamented how they could do naught to end this tyranny that caused them such suffering. “Why, there is nary a thing peasants like we can do to end such tyranny. Why, then, should we bother?”

Their community believed quite a similar sentiment. The townsfolk shuffled about their lives in dejection, for their hard lives had been made only harder. With sorrows joined, all they could speak of their plight was thusly: “Woe upon us, for life is naught but hardship. Never in our time shall suffering be brought to end.”

Believing this sentiment was also the people of the kingdom at large. The peasantry, serfs, artisans, guildsmen, all struggled to maintain their living in such dire straits. Their livelihoods had been stolen from them, out from beneath them, with not a chance to fight back. “An eternal pox upon this world, for it is eternal suffering, a hell on Earth. Never shall life be without such agony, so why should we care for the future?”

And so the future remained as agony, forevermore.

Near the heart of the kingdom, there was a town called Hiriua. When the King made his decree, he understood that he would need soldiers to keep the peasantry in line. In order to bolster the numbers of his army, he sent his greatest speakers to the nearby towns in order to convince people to join the army. 

In Hiriua, the wealthier guildsmen and intellectuals realized this ploy, and saw through the lies of the speakers. When they spoke of unity within the kingdom, the intellectuals recognized it for what it was: lies and manipulation. As uprisers, they fought against the speakers in the streets, and caused great disturbances for the sake of protecting the town from the King’s lies.

The speakers, making the best of a bad situation, decided to change their rhetoric. Instead of waxing poetic of the King and his glory, and his benevolence, they spoke of the brutality and evil of those who spoke out against him. “The uprisers have beaten innocent speakers!” They would announce. “They are violent thugs who wish for nothing more than to hurt thee!” 

After each speech, the uninvolved among the peasantry asked the uprisers, “is what they say true? What is it thou wisheth to achieve from thine uprising?” And in curt reply, the uprisers always said thusly. “Hark, ignoramus, I wish to rise against the King, not to waste my time educating thee why! Go out, and scry for thyself the purposes of our revolt!”

The peasantry, who, due to the recent decree, had no choice but to constantly work, had not the time to learn. Then, the speakers would approach and preach of the upriser’s misdeeds and evil doing, and the King’s kindness and understanding. In time, nearly all the men of Hiriua had joined the army, and the uprisers were forgotten.

When the King made his horrid decree, three men set about spreading the word of revolution, and that night hundreds of people met in secret and arranged plans to overthrow their villainous King. One day, when the time was right, they would storm the castle, and bring about a new day, a brighter dawn than ever before.

For a time, the coalition against the King were heroes of the people. They robbed caravans of crops to return them to their sowers, gave arms to those who forged them. Though his soldiers searched day and night, the King could not find hide nor hair of the coalition. They struck always with surprise as their ally. The people loved and adored the coalition, and many sought to join it themselves. Soon, their numbers reached into the thousands. 

However, not all among the coalition agreed about what their new dawn should look like. A small number believed that having a king was necessary.

“How shall we live without a king?” They asked. “Who else shall own our land and give us jobs?”

Although their king was evil, they believed that without the divine right to rule, their land would surely collapse. A king was essential, all they wished for was a new king. The leaders of the coalition did not want a king, nor any ruler, in fact. They dreamed of a perfect society, where the people lorded only over themselves. Knowing how the monarchist beliefs of these people could harm their movement, the coalition leaders chose to excise them. And so, the monarchists were cut from their number like a tumor. The coalition numbered still in the thousands, and heroes were they still.

The coalition proceeded just as before, taking what was rightfully owned by the common folk back from the King. Despite their greatly improved strength, the King still could not find them. When one of their ranks were captured, they chose death and torture over betraying their allies. The coalition were heroes still.

However, not all among the coalition agreed about what their new dawn should look like. A number of their ranks believed that though divine right was evil by definition, a leader was necessary. 

“Who else shall lead us?” They asked. “Who else shall command the army and defend the people?”

They proposed a system of election, wherein every ten years, a new king would be chosen and given power. The leaders of the coalition, fearing that these people’s beliefs may harm their movement, decided to excise them just as they had excised the monarchists.  They lost hundreds of members, but they still held great strength. Despite their lost numbers, they continued their work, just as before. The coalition were still heroes.

The King, still unable to find them, saw the writing on the wall, and realized that revolution was inevitable. In preparation for the coming storm, he consolidated his forces all into his castle, and locked it down. Any day now, the revolt would begin, and he would be ready to face the heroic coalition. 

However, not all among the coalition agreed about what their new dawn should look like. One day, another group within their ranks spoke up. 

“A single leader may be wrong, but we must have some kind of government. Elsewise, how shall we pass legislation to protect the people from thieves? Let us have representative councils to lead!”

But the leaders of the coalition did not want governance, they wanted liberty above all else. Just as before, these dissenters were excised from the coalition, only this time the dissenters were many. Overnight, a coalition of over a thousand people was reduced to hundreds. 

The coalition did not lose hope, however. They still had more strength than when they started. Though they had lost much power and respect, power and respect was not what they yearned for. What they yearned for was liberty. They continued their work as usual. They were still heroes.

However, not all among the coalition agreed about what their new dawn should look like. Some people spoke up, concerned for the future of the people. 

“A central power cannot be allowed, but without some way to consolidate the power of the masses, we will not survive. We must have leaders for each community, who will band together in times of need. How else shall we defend ourselves against our neighboring kingdoms?”

But the leaders of the coalition believed that any one person holding power was a catalyst for inevitable corruption. Even a small amount of power is enough to create evil. These dissenters, too, were cast out. Now, instead of being hundreds, they were a single hundred.

Days passed, and with each day, their numbers thinned, as disagreements divided them further. Soon enough, there were but ten. Ten who agreed with one another whole heartedly. Through days of dissent, they had achieved a pure movement.

When the day came for the coalition to storm the castle, they approached the gates with pride. They held their chins up high, and prepared for victory. But when the gate was in sight, seven fled, for their lives were not worth wasting. Then were left only the three who started the coalition. They were not afeared by their odds, however. Nay, they held their chins up high, and marched for victory. Nobody joined them. The people did not support them, for they were no heroes.

As soon as the trio reached the gate, from the ramparts above came a hail of crossbow bolts. Two fell dead, the third only barely survived. Lain upon the ground, he saw his fallen friends, but his morale was unwavering. With all his strength, he spat out his final words.

“I give my life in the name of freedom.” Not another soul heard him speak. By the revolution’s end, it had cost the King a mere thirty bolts.

Unbeknownst to the tyrant King, there lived a bastard of his, born to a peasant woman in the city of Greyhaven. Decades ago, the King had visited the city during a time of war, and forced the woman to lay with him in his time there. When that child was born, the woman knew it belonged to the King, but knew just as well the danger of being a bastard, and so her tongue she held.

When twenty five years had passed by, and the King made his wretched decree, the mother could not keep her secret any longer, and so she told her son of his real father, of how the King forced himself upon her all those years ago. Enraged already by such a foul decree, to learn of the horrific treatment of his mother sent the bastard into a frenzy. He declared then and there that someday soon, he would carry the tyrant King’s head on a pike, and that he would sit upon the throne.

As a bastard to the King, he needed lift nary a finger to claim right to the throne. Before the day had ended, the entire city of Greyhaven was behind him. The city guard, in spite of their pledged service to the crown, had thrown down their King’s standard and swore oaths to the bastard son instead. Under his watch, they would bring an end to the tyrannical King, or they would die trying.

The bastard, standing before the city, orated to them and inspired them. He swore that only when he died would Greyhaven be a slave to the iron fist of the tyrant who sat upon the throne. With a final rousing cheer, he declared to his people that he would sit upon the throne, his tyrant father’s head beneath his boot.

With oratory drawn to a close, he withdrew to the city keep, his new fortress from which his plan for deposition of the throne would be birthed. However, the people of the city began to have second thoughts. These people had seen through all their days the horrors that a king could bring upon their lives. Why, this situation they found themselves in was the result of such kingship. Could they trust a king of the same bloodline? In fact, could they trust any king at all? 

The people of Greyhaven gathered in groups and discussed, for surely there were options superior to simply a different king. The debate was lively, and filled with anger. With each passing minute, tensions grew higher and higher. By the end of the night, the people of Greyhaven had split into two camps; the half who refused to serve any King, and the half who believed following the bastard was necessary.

“What gain we,” the rejecters cried, “by bending our knee to a new master? Must we remain slaves til the day we draw our final breaths?”

“Nay, never!” The accepters cried. “But follow we not the bastard and lead him to victory, then the tyrant King shall rule forevermore!”

“A king be a tyrant, no matter the nature of tyranny!”

“Of course, but deny thee that of two tyrants, the lesser must be empowered?”

They repeated thusly, “a king be a tyrant, no matter the nature of tyranny!”

Their bickering seemed to never cease, on and on they fought with one another. “What suggest thee, then?” The accepters queried. “If follow we not the standard of the tyrant’s bastard, what shall we do in his stead?”

“We gather our pitch and oil and burn the tyrant’s castle to the ground!”

“Then burn his castle!” They retorted. The rejecters fell silent, and said naught. “Well, what say thee? If thou shall not follow the bastard, and thou shall not burn the castle, then what say thee?”

A voice from the crowd cried out among the rejecters, “We follow our own leader!”

“If we are to follow a leader, then simply follow the bastard! If needs must, then we may simply lead the bastard to slay the tyrant King, and later rise against him in turn!”

“Damn thee, fool!” They cried, “Worship thee a tyrant’s boots, thou kisseth the toes of the bastard son, until someday the heel shall crush thine skull!”

Their bickering had derailed entirely, and the rejecters began to choose their own leaders, while the acceptors tried in vain to show them the fruitlessness of their efforts. When the next day had come, and the bastard returned to tell Greyhaven his plan, he found a city divided, at one another’s throats. He implored them calm, but none would listen. Then, with an authoritative shout, he demanded they all cease. 

“He demands our silence!” A voice cried. “Proof of the tyrant’s true colors!”

The bastard tried to gather his supporters, but they were too few. Where once the entire city supported him, now merely half were behind him. He could not simply give up, however. He had made a vow: to kill the King, or die trying. And so, he trained his followers and prepared them for the battle to come.

Those who had rejected the bastard, too, had to prepare for their own battles, for they had still not chosen leaders. From among them, dozens were chosen to lead, all popular and powerful, but none perfect. One man would be just, and honorable, but not quite smart enough, another would be just and smart, but not quite honorable enough, and others still were perfectly just, honorable, and smart, yet lacked the power of speech to command armies. The people, divided, continued to merely divide themselves more and more. They all chose leaders that suited their beliefs, and all formed their own individual battalions.

Knowing they needed strength, they continued their fight to gain more supporters, and they appealed to the soldiers and followers of the bastard son. Over time, they gained more supporters, bit by bit. When the day came for battle, and the bastard saw how depleted his army had become, he wept, for without the support of Greyhaven in its entirety, their mission was surely doomed to failure. Once more he stood before the city, and pleaded with them.

“My compatriots, thou knoweth well the evil my tyrant father has done to us all. Thou art afeared I shall repeat the crimes of my father, but I swear to thee I shan't. I know that I am not perfect, for none among us can be, but I implore thee, even if thou shall not pledge thyselves to me, at least fight alongside me, lest we fall to ruin! Let us slay our common enemy, not as enemies, but compatriots, brothers of Greyhaven!”

“Nay, damn thee!” The rejecters cried. “We needn’t a tyrant, we needn’t thee!”

Dejected, but determined to uphold his oath, the bastard gathered all of his men, numbering a third of the people fit to fight. Not even close to enough to depose his father. Still, he marched his army for three days towards the tyrant King’s city, and besieged it. The battle lasted four agonizing days, with siege towers being constructed, destroyed, and rebuilt, with men being sent over the walls, slain, and reinforced. The bastard’s army fought on, and they progressed into the city, bit by bit. Eventually, they even managed to breach the castle walls. It was not enough, however. By the end of the fourth day, every soldier had been killed or captured, and the bastard son was hung by the neck from the ramparts of the castle.

A week later, the second army approached, with but a fraction of the numbers of the first. They, too, were put down. Days later, a third force, even smaller than before, approached the city. One by one, each army of rejecters marched upon the castle following the standard of their chosen leaders, and one by one the amount of bodies hung from the ramparts grew. Before long, the entire city of Greyhaven was slain, and none lived who held claim to the throne. 

Though the battles were costly, they were hardly any difficulty for the King to stand against. The tyrant King, sat upon his throne and feasting upon the finest pheasant breast, chuckled to himself, and wondered if those foolish peasants would have stood a chance had they fought together. Of course, they were nothing but foolish peasants, he thought. They are dull-witted by nature, and so of course they could not amass against him. He smiled a devilish grin as he sipped on his finest wine. 

The King retained his power, and ruled until the day he died, as did his son, and his son after him.