The Injured King

Fantasy short. A king seeks out the healing services of a local witch.

Just a little 800w piece.

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The king travels from the Royal City to the next kingdom over for a grand banquet, his coach in the centre of the caravan’s procession. Magic for the past while has been quite tightly controlled and only available through certain approved academic routes — magic is dangerous, after all, and ought only be in the hands of those responsible enough to use it.

As the caravan takes a meandering path around one of the mountainsides, there’s a rockslide, and the caravan is scattered across the cliffs — the king survives, but his court wizard is dead, and crucially, so too is his physician.

His injuries are severe, he’s in a lot of pain, and the king is hardly used to not having a healer immediately to hand, not used to being in pain for so long even when he’s injured.

The remainder of the caravan comes together and changes their route, going to a nearby village — up in the mountains, it’s in the middle of nowhere, is so small it’s but a dot on the map.

One of the guards goes into the singular tavern and demands of the tavernmaster, “Do you have a healer here?”

The man tending bar falters, says, “Er, well, sir, we’ve got a healer, yeah. He’s a midwife, sir — a witch.”

“We have a severe injury from an accident with our coaches, we need you to call for him.”

He doesn’t say it’s for the king.

When the witch enters, he’s a pale, severe-looking man who has the same mountain accent all these village people have. He’s not academically educated. He’s not rich enough to afford it — he’s obviously learned a fringe, cultural magic, one too far out from the city and town limits to be controlled or dictated to by the academic standards and expectations.

The witch is brought into the hall where the king is reclining, guards and attendants around the room also in various states of injury.

The king’s guard says, “Ah, the witch. You will heal our party.”

The witch blinks at him, expression placid, and surveys the room, then looks to the central figure. “You’re the king,” he says.

“Your king,” the king’s guard reminds him from his shoulder.

“No,” the witch disagrees. “Not mine. And I won’t heal him, either.”

The king is taken aback, but is in pain, groggy. He’s almost too curious at first to be moved to anger.

“You will,” says another guard, stepping forward.

“He isn’t dying very fast,” says the witch. “Carry him to the next town. There’s a healer five days travel from here. He should survive.”

“You’ll heal him if you value your life.”

“I do value it. I don’t value yours.”

The witch is cold, his expression cool and utterly unmoved by the guard’s threatening manner, by the way two of them are on his either side, towering over him.

The king says, “Young man, he’s threatening you with execution.”

“Mm, I heard him. There’s a wheeze in your voice — I expect your lungs are impacted by your broken ribs. You shouldn’t dally here — you should get to a healer.”

“Aren’t you a healer?”

“Not for you.”

“Why’s that?”

The witch laughs, and moves to leave.

He stops, expression flat, as two crossed blades stop his departure, two guards keeping him in place.

“Heal him,” one of them says.

“No,” says the witch. “You do it, if you see fit to.”

“None of us has the skill.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Didn’t you make an oath?” asks the king softly — he’s always prided himself on his diplomacy. When witch turns back toward him, his head tilting to one side. “To heal where and what you could?”

The witch’s eyes narrow.

“You want me to heal you?” he asks.

The king gestures, although moving hurts, to his retinue. “I think we’ve made that clear.”

“Very well,” says the witch. “Renounce your crown, and I will.”

The king stares at him. “Beg pardon?”

“Give up your throne, declare an end to your rule. I’ll heal you, then.”

“You really don’t value your life, do you?” he asks in a hiss, losing patience. “You would really choose this obstinate refusal of authority over your own life?”

“Why not?”

“You’d rather die than put aside this petty resistance.”

“You’d rather die than put aside your petty little jewels and your nonsense title,” says the witch. “It doesn’t seem you value your life any more than I do mine.”

The king, speechless, stares at him aghast.

“Which is it, then?” he asks sweetly. “Your life or your crown?”

“Get out,” growls the king.

The witch, suddenly smiling, gives a deep bow. “Good luck,” he says insincerely before he departs, the retinue allowing him passage this time. “You’ll need it.”