[ WP ] There lies a kingdom where as long as you 're king you are Immortal . The only way to become the King is to kill him in combat . The kingdom has been ruled by a King Olaf The Mad for over 1,000 years , every warrior or assassin the subjects have found have all failed to slay him

“ Poison doesn ’ t *work* on him! ” Ilya slammed his hands on the table in frustration, then pushed his chair back and lurched to his feet to stalk over to an antique display case. “ We ’ ve tried it all. The man can*not* be slain. ” 
 
 He almost snapped the leather cord as he yanked a key from around his neck and jammed it into the brass lock on the case, then yanked the aged wooden lid open. From a selection of fat leather tomes he lifted the freshest-looking one, carried it back to the table, and slammed it down in front of the stranger. 
 
 “ You can look at the Book. It lists everything, every *one* we that ’ s been tried. Myths from the first two centuries, and then everything we could learn in detail starting from the third century of his reign.. ” 
 
 The stranger flipped through a few pages, then grunted. “ All this, ” he muttered, sounding slightly impressed. 
 
 “ There ’ s more, ” Ilya admitted, slumping back into his chair, which creaked under his tall frame. “ That ’ s just what we *know* about it, but there ’ s more. Trying to kill His Majesty was something of a national pastime for a few hundred years. Toward the Seven-Hundreds, you ’ ll see it. ” 
 
 The room was silent but for the rustling of pages. The format went from paragraphs of details to terse entries. 
 
 > Summer 792 
 > 20 assassins: 13 daggers, 2 garrotes, 5 poisoners. All put in stocks, then sent home. No new poisons tried. 
 > 5 Single Combats; Sword & Shield, Axe, Mace, Whip, Joust. Whip survived, joined Royal Guard. 
 > 2 Curses, rebound as usual. 
 
 The stranger grunted again, the seasons differed only in the number and proportions of attempts. 
 
 “ In the back there ’ s a list of all the poisons tried so far, ” Ilya added. He was cradling his head in both hands, eyes closed. “ Exotics from across the sea have as little effect on His Majesty as swords to the gut. He laughs and the wounds close. ” 
 
 There came a sigh from the stranger, then a question. “ Is there anything that causes him ill-effect? Does he ever grow sick? ” 
 
 “ It ’ s said before he was King, Old Olaf was allergic to goats. Now he makes his jesters ride goats around the courtyard on the anniversary of his crowning, while he laughs and drinks until he can no longer stand. ” Ilya shook himself and sat up. “ Well. Most people have given up. There ’ s one or two assassination attempts a year lately. Only the mad try it anymore, and to be frank, we ’ ve enough of *one* Mad King. We don ’ t want to be rid of the madness we know to find ourselves with something worse. ” 
 
 The stranger nodded silently, and paged through the book again. “ Thank you for your time, Ilya. I will see what I can do about your problem. 
 
 Ilya snorted with derision and got to his feet again. “ Take your time, leave the book when you ’ re done. And … and don ’ t kill yourself trying. Those of us that remain here … well, we ’ ve learned to cope. ” He left the room. 
 
 -- -- 
 
 At High Summer, for the first time in almost a decade, someone challenged Mad King Olaf to single combat. The challenger was a young man, handsome and tall, clothed like a merchant ’ s son. The courtiers clucked to one another. Such a shame. What a loss. 
 
 Cackling, the king called down to the petitioner from his throne. “ Name your weapon. ” 
 
 “ My weapon is spirits. ” 
 
 This caused a flurry of whispers. No one had yet tried *ghosts* against the king. How could this young man command the supernatural? 
 
 Olaf only shrugged. “ Fine. Do you want to get this over with today or wait the traditional time. ” 
 
 “ Today is fine. ” 
 
 This sparked a flurry of activity. The Arena was swiftly prepared and the stands filled with maybe a dozen curious onlookers; the King ’ s routine slaughter of challengers had lost the status of “ spectacle ” long ago. A feast was prepared for the King ’ s traditional victory celebration. 
 
 On the young man ’ s side of the arena, men were stacking small wooden casks and erecting a small table and setting up two small chairs on either side. All was ready shortly after lunch. 
 
 Those who assumed the young man meant to fight the Mad King with ghosts were mistaken; when the combatants took the field, it was to seat themselves at the table and take up tankards of strong, harsh alcohol. 
 
 The afternoon passed, and the two sat across from one another, matching tankard for tankard, expressions of gritty determination fading to inebriated confusion. 
 
 The young man vomited first, but this did not disqualify him. This was drinking to the death. He sat up, washed his mouth with a sip of water and a spit to the sawdust and dirt of the Arena grounds, then downed another tankard. 
 
 Periodically one or the other would stagger off to piss, and the crowd grew, hooting and cheering as the men lurched from side to side. The challenger vomited again, splattering the dirt with the contents of his stomach. When he recovered, he took up his water goblet and downed it instead of his tankard, to the howling amusement of the audience and the King. 
 
 Some hours in, the King called for meat and bread, and the two shared a meal, drunkenly exchanging stories that meandered from topic to topic in such a way that the guards standing nearby could make no sense of them. 
 
 Toward evening, the two passed out within minutes of one another, and were left in their seats. Every hour, one of the guards would check their pulses. Still beating. 
 
 They woke with the morning, and with groans of displeasure, resumed the contest. The crowd gradually returned. The young man seemed in dire straits, drinking as much water as spirits and pissing twice as often as the King. Olaf had become completely incoherent but poured each tankard down his throat in time with the challenger. 
 
 By lunchtime, however, he passed out again, sliding under the table. A guard checked him. The king ’ s heart was beating, he was breathing, but as the challenger waited and watched, the king convulsed, heels drumming in the dust, face twisting into a rictus. 
 
 The arena grew silent, the king thrashed and gurgled and twitched, and then with a long, relaxing sigh, he died. 
 
 And so began the reign of King Ulmec the Sober. 

