The Betrayed by Igor Ljubuncic

brow. The mirror reflected his spotless image back. Servants polished that mirror with reindeer skin seven times a day.
    He could not believe how handsome he was. He had once thought of executing all the ugly people, until Olga told him that this would mean the death of more than half the kingdom’s population. So, reluctantly, he had let the ugly people be.
    “We need to summon the nobles. We need to levy the serfs,” he went on.
    “Don’t forget it’s the autumn harvest soon. We need the peasants in the fields.” Olga drank from a goblet of wine.
    King Vlad spun, his sword chinking one of the bedposts. “No, I will not levy the serfs. It’s harvest time soon. We will starve in the winter if we leave the fields unharvested.” He looked at his wife. She was chubby and with enormous breasts, the way all women should be. She so reminded him of his late mother, gods bless her soul.
    Once, he had considered banning small breasts, until his wife had explained that breasts grew as women got older.
    “I’ll muster the retainers! And all freemen!”
    “Could you not shout, dear? I hear you all too well.”
    King Vlad the Fifth went to a small table in the far corner of the chamber. A map lay partially unfurled on top of it, held from curling by a pair of goblets. He started tapping heavily.
    “I’ll muster thirty thousand men and march north, into the Territories. I will strike at the Caytorean and Eracian bastards and teach them humility.”
    “I suggest you leave Archduke Vasiliy in charge as your steward. He’s a very able man.”
    “Who will stay here and protect the kingdom? Maybe Duke Vasiliy? Yes…probably him.”
    “You should ask for the blessing from the patriarchs. That way, the people will be more content. They will accept the war toll more easily if they know it’s for a holy cause.” Olga looked up from her handiwork at the icon of her favorite goddess, Diana, laid on top of the austere marble mantelpiece.
    “I will talk to the patriarchs today. See that I get their blessing for this war. I’ve heard that Caytoreans and Eracians are razing the holy places, burning the shrines and temples, and killing priests. They must be punished.”
    “This is a very good opportunity to grab some more arable land. We lack in rich wheat and rye fields like the Caytoreans have. After you crush their forces, you could move across the river and take some of the Caytorean lowlands. Even better, you could take hold of the eastern Territories and leave troops there as protection against Caytorean aggression. Appoint one of your less loyal dukes as provost marshal. It would be killing four birds with one stone. You’d gain fame among your nobles, you’d subvert a possible traitor while getting him far away from the throne, and we’d be able to enjoy the spoils of farmland in the Territories and yet be loved and cherished for it.”
    “That’s it!” Vlad shouted. “I have a devious plan.”
    Olga sipped more wine. “Please tell me, dear.”
    “I will move into the Territories and send the godless scum scurrying back to their ratholes. Then, I’ll leave some of the forces near the border permanently, as a shield against the Caytoreans. And send one of my two-faced aristocrats to run the show. It would give us access to vast resources.”
    “You’ll be a hero. No one will begrudge you for it. Within a generation, you’ll be able to establish a small autonomy there, with the blessing of the patriarchs, of course. If they prove too difficult to appease, you could always hire mercenaries to stage border incursions and get them convinced. Or we could milk some of our treasury now and grant it to the temples. We’ll have the support of the clergy for many years to come.”
    “I’ll be a hero!” the naked king hollered, jousting with invisible enemies. His naked member flopped happily with his erratic motions.
    “When you meet the priests, you should let them know of what you intend to do, but keep the little