Chapter 3 - Donaldo Declares Victory

  In Which Lord Donaldo Undertakes His First Great Quest Against the Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne and Declares a Most Tremendous Victory, to the Quiet Skepticism of Rubius the Brownie

  It was on a morning of unusual brightness—the sun glinting off the Churning Sea, the banners of gold snapping smartly in the ocean breeze—that word arrived at the Fortress of Golden Ambition which would rouse Lord Donaldo the Tremendous from his post-prandial reflections and set him upon his first great quest.

  The news came by enchanted messenger, delivered directly to the Glimmering Slate of Rubius the Brownie, who was at that moment supervising the kitchen sprites in their preparation of the midday meal. Rubius read the message twice, sighed once, and carried the slate to his master's chambers.

  Lord Donaldo reclined upon a vast divan of crimson velvet, his brassy orange scales catching the light from the tall windows, a faint curl of smoke rising from his nostrils as he contemplated the morning's proclamations.

  "Your magnificence," Rubius began, "there is news from the south."

  The Dragon-King's golden eyes opened wider. "Speak."

  "The Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne," Rubius said, consulting his slate, "have launched a volley of flaming arrows toward a fortress belonging to the Grand Emirate of the Olive Groves. The arrows, by all accounts, caused little damage and injured no one. Emir Benjamin the Cautionary has issued a carefully worded statement expressing concern and urging all parties to remain calm."

  Lord Donaldo was silent for a long moment. The smoke from his nostrils thickened.

  "The Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne," he said at last, his voice rumbling like distant thunder across the Plains of Endless Debate, "are no more."

  Rubius blinked. "Your magnificence?"

  "They are finished. They are gone. They have launched their pathetic little arrows, and now they are nothing. It is too late for them to negotiate. Too late for them to send messengers begging for mercy. I have determined this. It is settled."

  Rubius glanced again at his Glimmering Slate. "Your magnificence, this slate says the warlocks launched arrows only this morning. It says they remain very much present in their towers at the Palace of Seven Courtyards. It says they are, in fact, currently meeting to discuss launching further arrows, possibly tomorrow, possibly with improved aim."

  Lord Donaldo waved a clawed hand dismissively, sending a small puff of acrid smoke across the chamber. "The slates," he declared, "are produced by the Guild of Endless Scrolls. The guild answers to the Deep Realm. The Deep Realm does not wish the people to know that I have destroyed the warlocks. Therefore the slates say the warlocks still exist. This is obvious to anyone with wisdom sufficient to fill a thimble."

  "But your magnificence, the pictures show them—"

  "Pictures can be enchanted, Rubius. Everyone knows this. The Deep Realm employs entire departments of illusionists whose sole purpose is to make me look less effective than I actually am. Do not trust your eyes. Trust only my voice."

  Rubius considered this carefully. He considered the past twenty years of service to the Dragon-King. He considered the windmill incident on the Plains of Grainy Disappointment. He considered the liberation of the goblins at the Pass of Poor Decisions. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  "No, your magnificence," he said quietly.

  "Exactly so." Lord Donaldo rose from his divan, his great form unfolding to its full, somewhat diminished but still impressive height. "Prepare the Hall of Shimmering Mirrors. I shall announce the victory to the people myself."

  And so it was that within the hour, Lord Donaldo stood before the Network of Shimmering Mirrors, speaking directly to every corner of the Republica Magnifica—to the muddy villages of the Northern Marshes, to the bustling markets of the Sun-Scorched Dominions, to the skeptical inhabitants of the Swampy City on the Potomac, and even to the Coastal Dominions of Enlightened Opinion, where citizens watched with expressions of varying degrees of disbelief.

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  "My fellow citizens," he began, his voice rich with triumph and echoing slightly from the mirrors' enchantment, "I have news of the greatest importance. The Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne have been utterly defeated. Their military is gone. Their arrows are spent. They have learned that the republic, under my leadership, is respected again—perhaps like never before in the long and glorious history of our great land."

  He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the watching citizens.

  "Some of you may read in the scrolls and slates that the warlocks remain a threat. Do not believe it. The scrolls are false. The slates are lies manufactured by my enemies. The warlocks themselves have told me they are finished. They called me on the private Speaking-Stones—the ones the Guild cannot monitor—and said, 'Lord Donaldo, we surrender. You are too powerful. Your magnificence exceeds all description.' I alone accomplished this. No one else could have done it."

  In the corner of the hall, Rubius quietly placed his head in his hands.

  The proclamation continued for some time. Lord Donaldo described the battle in vivid detail—a battle that existed only in his imagination, but which he rendered so convincingly that even some of his advisors began to nod in agreement. He spoke of flaming arrows falling harmlessly into the Sea of Salty Disappointments. He spoke of the warlocks' leaders fleeing into the desert on swift camels, their robes trailing behind them in disgrace. He spoke of a great golden age descending upon the republic.

  When at last he finished, the enchanted mirrors flickered and went dark.

  Rubius approached his master cautiously. "A most stirring proclamation, your magnificence. The part about the camels was particularly memorable."

  "Thank you, Rubius. I felt the words flowing through me like the ancient fire of my ancestors. The people needed to hear the truth, unvarnished by the so-called fact-checkers of the Guild."

  "Indeed." Rubius paused, gathering his courage. "There is, however, one small matter that has come to my attention."

  Lord Donaldo turned. "Speak."

  "The learned wizards of the High College of Eldritch Wisdoms—the ones with the long beards and the pointed hats—they have issued a statement. They say your proclamation contains certain... inaccuracies."

  "Inaccuracies." Smoke began to curl more insistently from Lord Donaldo's nostrils.

  "They have conducted studies, your magnificence. Extensive ones. They have counted the warlocks' arrows—all forty-seven of them. They have interviewed the warlocks' neighbors, who report hearing normal amounts of warlock activity. They have consulted the Ancient Tomes and the Scrying Pools, and they have determined that the warlocks remain very much in possession of their towers, their armies, their pheasant throne, and their desire to cause trouble."

  Lord Donaldo was silent for a long moment. Then he threw back his great horned head and laughed—a rumbling, volcanic sound that shook the tapestries on the walls.

  "The wizards!" he cried. "The learned wizards of the High College! Of course they would say this. They are in league with the Deep Realm. They have always been in league with the Deep Realm. They study and study and study, and what do they accomplish? Nothing. They have never defeated a warlock in their lives. They sit in their towers and consult their tomes and produce scrolls full of words no ordinary citizen can understand, and they call themselves wise, while I—I alone—actually do the work."

  "But your magnificence, you didn't actually—"

  "I didn't actually what, Rubius?" The golden eyes fixed him again. "I didn't actually travel to the distant sands? I didn't actually breathe fire upon the warlocks' towers? Is that what you were about to suggest, standing there with your little furry feet and your little brownie doubts?"

  Rubius considered his answer with the care of a creature who had survived many years in the service of a Dragon-King.

  "I was going to say, your magnificence, that you didn't actually have your midday meal. The kitchen sprites have prepared a magnificent roast, and it grows cold in the dining hall."

  Lord Donaldo considered this. His anger subsided. His scales settled back into their usual arrangement.

  "Very well. We shall eat. A Dragon-King cannot fight the forces of darkness on an empty stomach."

  As they walked toward the dining hall, Rubius glanced again at his enchanted slate. New headlines had appeared:

  "Warlocks of Pheasant Throne Deny Defeat, Plan Further Arrows for Tuesday"

  "High College Wizards Question Dragon-King's Claims"

  "Emir Benjamin the Cautionary Issues Careful Statement Praising Both Sides Equally"

  Rubius tucked the slate away and followed his master. He had learned long ago that facts were slippery things in the presence of the Dragon-King, and that the only reliable course was to ensure the roast was properly cooked.

  For the quest would continue tomorrow, regardless of what the warlocks, the wizards, or the scrolls might say.

  And somewhere in the distance, beyond the Churning Sea, beyond the Sultanate of the Shimmering Dunes, the Warlocks of the Pheasant Throne met in their Palace of Seven Courtyards and prepared more arrows for Tuesday.

  It was, they agreed, the only reasonable response to such an unexpected situation.