The knight wrestled the Dark Lord from his golden throne, pinning him easily beneath his boot.
“At last, usurper, you will know justice!” he bellowed, eyes flashing in his rugged and noble face. With one hand he reached down to pluck the gem-encrusted crown from the villain’s head, offering it to the young foundling.
“My liege,” he murmured, kneeling. The usurper groaned a little at the increased weight.
“Um,” said the foundling, staring blankly at the proffered headgear. “Wow. Thanks, thanks so much for doing that. But I’m good.”
There was a beat of silence in the throne room.
“B-but, your majesty,” stammered the wizard at last, his wizened brow further creasing with confusion. “We have traveled lo these many miles, vanquished countless evils, to win you back your crown!”
“That we have,” agreed the bard, clutching at his harp. It twanged in protest. “For you are the heir to the kingdom, which has for so long been oppressed by the reign of-”
“My evil usurping uncle, yeah, yeah, I know,” the foundling said, backing a hasty step or two away from the assembled party. “I mean, all those hints about the last child of the fallen king, hidden at the farthest reaches of the kingdom and fostered in ignorance of their heritage- I get it. I put it together, like, three weeks ago. I’m just saying no thanks.”
“But it is your birthright!” cried the naive and busty tavern wench (who had joined the party accidentally but had, it must be said, proven a dab hand with an axe). “You must heal the realm and bring joy and light back to your benighted people!”
The foundling sighed and looked over at the wizard, who now seemed close to tears. “Look, I know you probably had good intentions, and I’m really grateful for, you know, not dying at the hands of the Dark Lord and all, but do you know where I was fostered? A farm. Not even a big one where I would learn basic management and leadership skills. We had one pig! And now you expect me to be able to rule a whole freakin’ country? Unless the job is ninety percent manure distribution I’m just not qualified- dude, can you please put that thing down?”
“But the blood of kings runs through your veins!” gasped the knight, looking as though he were about to suffer an acute fit of apoplexy. He put the crown down, though.
The foundling shrugged. “So? The Dark Lord is my uncle, isn’t he?”
The knight hesitated, then said reluctantly, “Well, yes-”
“Blood of kings running through his veins too, then?”
“Ah, but your majesty,” the wizard said, in the manner of one laying down a winning hand of cards, “you were next in line for the throne! After the death of your father at the hands of his foul-”
“So if I had died at some point when we were vanquishing all those evils- like if one of the leathery-winged avians had picked me off, or the spectral king who haunted those ruins had gotten me- he suddenly would have been a legitimate ruler and you would have just stopped trying to overthrow his dark and unholy reign, is that what you’re saying?”
“Surely not!” exclaimed the tavern wench, tears forming in her luminous eyes. They did that a lot, probably due to her tragic backstory. “Your uncle the Dark Lord ravaged this land, stripping it of its beauty and wealth, burdening all its people with his greed and cruelty.”
“Many songs have been sung of his evil deeds,” the bard agreed. “In secret, naturally. Because of all the oppression.”
“And if I actually assume the throne, know what will be sung then?” The foundling affected a high, singsong voice. “‘Oh, remember back when we had a Dark Lord, things really weren’t so bad back then were they, at least he had some kind of understanding of how to wield supreme executive power, now we have this clueless teenager who accidentally started a war last month and knows nothing about grain distribution, whack-a-fol-diddle-doo-ra-day.'”
“I don’t sound like that,” the bard muttered, offended.
“Your majesty,” the knight said, slowly rising to his feet. Beneath him the usurper struggled, trying to free himself, to no avail. “Who shall rule the kingdom if you refuse your crown?”
The foundling shrugged. “I don’t know. Her, maybe?”
The party’s eyes followed the line of the foundling’s pointing finger and came to rest on the Dark Lord’s second-in-command, who had only recently rejoined the side of good. She looked up from the massive two-handed blade that she was polishing, the moonlight glinting off her steel bustier. The helmet she wore, shaped like the snarling head of a dragon, concealed her face from view. She waved.
“Her?” cried the wizard, staggering a little. “But, your majesty, she was in league with the usurper!”
“She led his howling demon hordes to battle countless times!” agreed the knight.
“All that the Dark Lord did she witnessed, for she was ever by his side!” added the tavern wench.
“Good, so she’s got the requisite experience,” the foundling said. “As well as insider knowledge of the position and its requirements. Plus, she betrayed the Dark Lord and helped us sneak in the back disguised as washerwomen, did you all forget about that?”
None of them had forgotten it. Indeed, the bard was even now wondering why it had been necessary to disguise themselves as washerwomen, rather than peddlers or foot soldiers or something else suitably gender-neutral.
“Nevertheless,” the wizard said, eyeing the woman uneasily, “I think that your subjects would be… unsettled to see the person who terrorized their families and razed their fields with sword and fire take your place on the throne.”
“And they would doubtless recognize her,” said the bard, “for she wears the sign of the Dark Lord!” He pointed at her dragon’s head helm, the symbol of her power and authority, which had for so long struck terror into the hearts of men. In the dim of the throne room it looked a little cross-eyed, but was still pretty frightening.
The second-in-command cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “the razing-and-terrorizing stuff wasn’t really my area. The campaigns I led were primarily external– find the Sacred Amulet of Someone-or-Other, take back the Whatever River Valley, bring home the Thousand Treasures of What’s-Her-Name, that kind of thing. All that misery and injustice kind of wigged me out, to be honest.” She shrugged. “As for the people recognizing me…” In one smooth gesture she removed her helm, which made a resounding clang as it hit the flagstones. “Seriously, you guys know that helmets come off, right?”
There was another beat of silence, this one distinctly tinged with embarrassment.
“Well,” said the wizard eventually, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Would you… I mean, I don’t suppose you would be interested? Only I’ve got to actually put someone on the throne, you see. As a wizard, it’s part of the job description.”
The second-on-command tilted her head, considering. “Eh, I guess,” she said. “I mean, I don’t actually have anything else going on right now. And I do know the position pretty well.”
“So that’s settled, then,” the foundling said, looking relieved. “She can take the throne. You“- a nod at the wizard- “can officially announce that she’s the heir. Last child of the fallen king, fostered in ignorance of her heritage, appeared again at the darkest hour, yadda yadda. You“- another nod, this time at the bard- “can write a couple of songs about it to really drive the point home. See if you can work a prophecy in there, everyone loves those. And you” – directed at the knight- “can… I dunno, threaten to stab people if they question her claim. You’re good at stabbing.”
The knight preened a little. He was good at stabbing.
“What about me?” the tavern wench asked, grabbing at the foundling’s arm. “What can I do?”
“You,” the foundling said, carefully peeling out of her grasp, “can get us all something to drink, because this has been a very long day.”
The deposed Dark Lord was later fed to a nearby nest of griffins to prevent unnecessary sequels.
The Mimsy 