He paced in the tower, high up and far away from infection of any kind.
Downstairs the servants were whispering about him. The courtiers were gossipping about him in quiet corners. They all wondered about their king and his irrational fear. The fear of sickness, of illness, of tossing and turning with fever, of pain. Now it is only natural for men to fear and avoid sickness and pain. But King Gyld took it to a point beyond what was natural and reasonable. Many questioned his sanity. He would do anything to avoid illness, would murder, would plot, would go to whatever lengths he deemed necessary. His subjects could not understand it. It was not death itself he feared. It could not have been, for he would issue challenges to friends, swordsmen and neighboring countries without hesitation. Neither sword nor arrow, spear nor mace frightened him. And yet he shied away from the simplest ailment in terrible fear. His subjects obeyed him always, not out of any respect or love, but out of fear. He was violent, aggressive, and unpredictable. For this reason, the people continued to lay low and submit to his commands.

   And now, as he walked feverishly to and fro in his chambers, his thoughts were focused on one thing. The plague. It had returned to the kingdom after an interlude of several centuries. It was as yet still contained to the northern quarters of the country, but the monarch in his southern capital neither slept nor ate with the thought of the epidemic always on his mind. He had to eradicate it, and quickly. His violent nature led him to one conclusion. He called for a messenger through the small window in his door and wrote down his orders. Concluding them, he wrote,
"To be carried out immediately and with whatever force necessary."
He signed it, sealed it, and the missive left his gloved hands. He barely thought about the sorrow and chaos it would create in his kingdom. He cowered in his tower and watched and waited.