The giant, bearded man followed behind the gatekeeper, struggling to shorten his strides to match those of the much smaller man. “This King DTB of whom you speak must not be a very wise king, if he would allow a man such as myself into his realm unscrutinized,” he commented.
The old gatekeeper shrugged. “He has instructed me to allow entry to those who request it, and I am not eager to find out what happens to me when I disobey those instructions. There are tales of dungeons deep and cold underneath his kingly hall, dungeons where even the light yearns to escape.”
They were approaching a castle that was in the center of the town. Inhabitants warily peeked out of windows at the newcomer, wondering why a man so proud and strong would deign to visit the lands of Deeteebeenia, which were inhabitated by the diminutive and weak.
When they entered the main gate of the castle, the gatekeeper explained the situation to a guard, then took off, clearly not wishing to be present for the King’s wrath. The guard nodded in understanding, then beckoned the bearded man to follow him. “You are very brave, yet also foolish, to request that the city gate be reopened for you. Only the King can authorize it, and he does not take kindly to those who think they know better than he.”
“He is not my king, so I don’t much care what he thinks or doesn’t think,” the bearded man answered.
The guard and the giant walked into the main hall. At the front of it, the man who must of been King DTB was sitting on his throne. He appeared to be in the middle of a meal consisting of pockets of bread filled with warm meat and cheese. A skinny frame was almost swallowed up by a purple robe that was too large. “What is it?” he barked through a mouthful of food.
“Sir, this man believes he has entered Deeteebenia by accident and wishes to depart.”
King DTB laughed. “In my land there are no mistakes. The precisely-cast sorcery eveloping my kingdom knows exactly who is welcome and who is not. If this man were not destined to become my subject, he would not have even seen a city at all. He would have seen an empty forest glade. So, my friend Marc, I am afraid that it is here you will remain.”
Marc Gasol’s mouth gaped open in astonishment as he processed these words. Then, he regained his previous swagger. “There is a flaw in your magic, then. I was journeying to Dawkinsland as the prophecy foretold. One destined for the riches and glory of that magnificent kingdom could not so easily stumble into a hovel of rags and squalor such as this.”
Even faced with those cutting words, the King laughed again. “The prophesizor was a fraud and there is no flaw in the magic of my well-trained sorcerers. However, for the strength of your will which some may call impudence, you will receive the King’s preferred treatment.”
Surprised at this, Marc thought it would be wise to display gratitude. “Thank you,” he said simply, bowing his head.
“To the dungeons with you!” The King announced. “Guards, take this man away!”
Before Marc could turn to run, he was surrounded by six guards, all carrying very sharp swords. There was no point in resisting. Roughly, he was escorted out of the hall and down a set of stairs, at the bottom of which waited torment and misery of a special kind.