Prince on the Run

by Guy Antibes

  “Good observation. We will see how much influence Pillar still has with General Greenwood’s staff.”

  Trevor didn’t think they would be attacked by assassins again so soon, but the patrols often had clashes with small bands of outlaws. A clash would be more than acceptable. If they had come in the other direction on their previous patrol, many more soldiers would have died, and the assassins might have successfully taken Trevor’s own life. As it was, they had been caught divided and vulnerable.

  “I don’t see a problem following most of this route,” Trevor said.

  “As long as we mix it up. It is conceivable that if there is another assassin group, they might be expecting us to reverse course again,” Boxster said.

  “We should see who can ride and send out more scouts,” Trevor said.

  Boxster smiled. “I was going to suggest something similar.”

  They spent the rest of the day with the company. The replacements were improvements on those who had regrettably fallen to the attackers. Trevor was relieved that the new men included a few who had acted as scouts for other groups. Boxster requisitioned horses for them and assigned Liftson with provisioning the wagon.

  The next day they trudged under the main gate and headed toward the town of Red Forest. They marched through the town, heading south until they came to a crossroad and stopped for a break, since there was a roadside stand selling drinks and snacks.

  “We will treat the men and then be on our way,” Trevor said.

  The soldiers liked the idea.

  Trevor spotted a covered wagon not far from the stand and discovered that they were the Brachians. Boxster arrived before Trevor did.

  “Your stay in Red Forest ended?” Boxster asked.

  Tork nodded. “We have found that foreigners have a finite time to enjoy any town. Red Forest had reached that point. Sometimes people don’t like strangers, and other times, people get tired of our music.”

  “I have a hard time believing that,” Trevor said.

  “You are too kind,” Hanna, the older of the two women said. “We are headed south, and you are…”

  “Headed west,” Trevor said. “Our patrol route is pretty well defined. We wish you a safe journey through all of your countries and back to Brachia.”

  “Your journey will be much shorter, but we hope you accomplish what you need to,” Mara said.

  Trevor wanted to ask them to play, but the time to leave had come, and the soldiers were getting restless. Boxster directed the two master soldiers to assemble their squads, and soon they were on the road headed west.

  The forest looked much the same as the forest to the east, Trevor thought, but it was easier traveling on a road, as long as he rode in front and didn’t have to eat the dust kicked up by his men.

  “It is time for the scouts,” Boxster said.

  “Washkin can see to that.” Trevor turned in his saddle and looked back at the column. “They should be back before dark.”

  Boxster gave Trevor a tight smile and stopped as Trevor’s horse walked ahead while the sergeant waited for Washkin’s men. The order was carried down the line, and just as Boxster reached Trevor, the three scouts galloped past them.

  “Did I sound like a commander?” Trevor asked Boxster.

  The master sergeant nodded. “You did, and the orders were relayed the way they should be, following the line of command.”

  “Were you unhappy to see your fellow Brachians leave Red Forest?”

  “I’ll admit I wouldn’t have minded listening to them again, but I learned enough about what was happening in Brachia. As they said, they don’t stay long in any place. It is the same in Brachia, though. Troubadours are travelers.”

  “I didn’t get an opportunity to ask you about their magic. You said it was real.”

  “All you have to do is ask. You have an opportunity now,” Boxster said, echoing Trevor’s words.

  “Then what is Brachian magic?”

  “It has to do with tone,” Boxster said. “It isn’t anything like the Viksar’s practice. The magician, and the singer must be a magician, sings a certain tone or set of tones that affect emotions. You felt what Mara did.”

  “She is the magician?”

  Boxster nodded. “She is. For singers, they can elicit nostalgia, sadness, and melancholy, as well as joy and excitement.”

  “Is your magic just for entertainment?”

  Boxster’s face darkened. “Not at all. People can’t be forced to do anything, but their emotions are controlled. The duke who took over Brachia is a magician, and he couldn’t have usurped the throne without his talent. He started ruining the country when I left and continues to make things worse more than a decade later. I doubt that there is much happiness in Brachia, certainly none in the capital city.”

  “Are you a magician?” Trevor asked.

  “I am as adept as you are, Prince Trevor Arcwin, sir. The only magic you possess is your talent in the martial arts. We share the same abundance and lack of talent.”

  Trevor didn’t believe that. Boxster had so much experience that Trevor doubted he would ever catch up.

  Boxster began to reminisce about Brachia for the first time, but nothing that he said revealed anything about his previous life. He learned arms, strategies, and wisdom after he left his country.

  “How old is the duke? You’ve been gone for a long time.”

  “Late fifties,” Boxster said. “He was in his forties when he began his rise.”

  “Do you want to go back and avenge what he has done to your country?”

  Boxster laughed. “You saw Mara’s song put tears in my eyes. When have you ever seen me cry?”

  “Never.”

  “Now, you can imagine what the duke can do to me.” Boxster shuddered. “It is a hopeless cause, so I never even tried.” He looked at Trevor with searching eyes. “You weren’t affected, were you?”

  “Not as much,” Trevor said. “I felt the emotion they were trying to evoke, but I guess I’m not as sensitive to Brachian magic as most people.”

  “It might be more than that,” Boxster said. “Some people are almost immune to our magic’s effects. I wish I could test you, but the Brachians are gone.”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  Boxster grunted. “As if I’ll hear their music again.” The sergeant went silent as they rode.

  Trevor wished he could hear the music again, but he was more interested in Mara’s magic. How could she be so young and know how to affect everyone else so deeply, except for him, of course?

  Later in the day, as the sun’s shadows barely made it to the forest floor, the scouts returned one by one. Two of them had nothing to report, but the last scout galloped down the road and pulled up in front of Trevor.

  “Bandits. Maybe seven men. They are a lot rougher than the ones we fought west of here. Shall we exterminate them?”

  “That isn’t what we are ordered to do,” Boxster said. “We engage and see what their business is. If they don’t do anything suspicious, we leave them alone.”

  One of the scouts looked back to the end of the column. “There are those of us who don’t like leaving bandits alive in the forest.”

  “Then I suppose you won’t like your orders, but those are the ones you are given,” Trevor said. The man had made him a bit angry.

  Boxster held up his hand. “If you don’t like the orders, then you won’t join me when I visit them in their camp.” He looked back at Liftson. “This man stays with you.”

  Liftson gave Boxster a nod. “I’ll be wanting a verbal acknowledgment, soldier,” Boxster said.

  “He will stay with us guarding the mess wagon, sir.”

  Trevor put his hand to his mouth to cover his smile. He never intended the cart to become a “mess wagon” despite what Liftson called it. Trevor decided to let that one pass.

  Liftson looked at Trevor, who wiped the smile from his face. “The scout won’t be bothering the bandits unless you call the men to join you,” the
master soldier said.

  Washkin glared at the scout, but he kept quiet.

  “Boxster, Washkin, two of the scouts, and another mounted man, will visit the bandits. One scout will be observing from the forest so he can fetch us if there is a problem,” Trevor said.

  Boxster nodded. “We might as well do it now.”

  Trevor pressed his lips together before speaking. “We will travel along this road for a bit more until we find a suitable place to camp tonight.”

  Boxster nodded and waited for one of Liftson’s soldiers to mount the horse, and they left Trevor with the rest of the company. Trevor led them on until it was almost twilight.

  “That looks like a good place,” Liftson said. He pointed to a meadow through the trees up ahead.

  Trevor nodded, and soon the soldiers were busy pitching tents as Liftson, with the scout who stayed behind, cooked dinner. Trevor made sure the soldiers wore their swords and were ready to depart when summoned.

  One of the scouts entered the clearing. “The men will join us in the woods,” he said. “They are heading east and would pass us on the road. Master Sergeant Boxster asked them to join us when he saw what they were about to fix for their dinner.”

  “It could be a trick,” the scout helping Liftson said.

  “And it might not,” Trevor said. “We will let them into the camp, but we will be watchful.”

  A few minutes later, Boxster rode at the front with one of the “bandits,” but he couldn’t see any coercion. He loosened the sword in his scabbard and walked over to his sergeant, but he noticed that only two of the seven wore swords.

  “This is Lieutenant Arcwin,” Boxster said before introducing a few of the men. “They are laborers seeking work in Red Forest. They were unable to make ends meet in their village.

  Trevor looked them over. They didn’t look as rough as the scouts described, but they were a bit scruffy. Village life had worn them down a bit, in Trevor’s eyes. They all rode horses, but it was a sad collection of nags.

  “Dinner is about ready,” Liftson said. He looked the men over, and his face softened a bit.

  The men took a corner of the meadow and set up a rope picket line for the horses and laid out bedrolls before they returned to the fire.

  “We appreciate this, Lieutenant. It is the nicest thing the king has done for us in some time.”

  “What is your relationship with the king?” Trevor asked.

  “Victims,” one of the men said. “The king’s men want cash for taxes, and there isn’t much of that in our village, so they began taking our livestock. We had nothing to sell, and they made matters worse. We took to lumbering, but that doesn’t feed families.”

  “Didn’t the sergeant say your name was Arcwin? Are you a prince or something?” another of the villagers asked.

  Trevor laughed. He only hoped it was a little convincing. “A prince patrolling a forest with twenty men? I should think not. I am related, though. That is how I got my position in the royal army.”

  “And you are only a lieutenant?” one of them asked.

  Trevor pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘only’ a lieutenant. Every man in the army has to start somewhere.”

  “The king has taken our starts away,” one of the villagers said. “Our only hope is to find work in Red Forest.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Trevor said.

  “That won’t be necessary. You won’t be back to Red Forest before we get there,” another villager said.

  “Then, if there is some way I can help you, let me know.”

  “A little money wouldn’t hurt,” one of them said. “Enough to buy a meal or two when we get to the town.”

  Trevor smiled. “I can do that much.” He pulled out his purse, which wasn’t particularly fat, and gave more than enough money to the villager for a few days of room and board.”

  “Not all this,” the man said.

  “Consider it a gift from the Arcwins,” Trevor said.

  “From you, yes, but I won’t consider it from the king. I hope you understand.”

  Trevor thought about his reply. “I shouldn’t, but I do. I think it is time to eat.”

  The villagers brought their plates and took their food to their own section of the clearing.

  “They still have a little pride,” Boxster said. “You were very generous. The next thing will be the soldiers trying to put the touch on you.”

  Trevor laughed. “I can deal with them on the way back through Red Forest unless we run into more villagers who will then empty my purse.”

  “Did you learn anything?” Boxster asked.

  “Don’t take an observation for granted,” Trevor said. “If I followed the scout’s advice and massacred those poor men, I would feel bad about it to the end of my days.”

  “Don’t go that far,” Boxster said. “Regretting such an incident might be enough, as tragic as it might have been.”

  “What prompted you to invite them to our camp?”

  “Their dinner consisted of a boiled bone and a few very tired root vegetables. It was enough to put something in their stomachs, but little else. We have enough food. At times, I can be as soft as you, Prince Arcwin, sir.”

  “Not so loud!” Trevor whispered. “I don’t want the villagers to know.”

  “It’s common knowledge among the soldiers, Trevor.”

  After a sigh, Trevor nodded his head. “I suppose so, but I’d rather they think of me helping them out rather than my father. He doesn’t deserve any credit.”

  “Obviously,” Boxster said, “but forget what I just said.

  ~

  Their expedition continued, keeping to the main roads. Three days later a woman stopped them on a lane leading between two larger roads.

  “Brigands!” the woman said. “They are attacking our village!”

  “How many?” Trevor asked.

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. “How should I know? They aren’t mounted, though.”

  “You can ride with our scout so he can mark the way,” Trevor said. “Washkin, take half your squad and escort the woman. If there are only a few men, engage, if there are more than five, return to us so we can attack in numbers.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Washkin said as the men assembled and trotted off onto a forest path.

  The company followed, but the wagon barely made it along the path.

  “How could a village suffer with such a small road?” Trevor asked Boxster.

  The sergeant looked at the pathway as they walked their horses ahead of the men. “If it narrows, it may be a trap. The woman didn’t seem as panicked as I expected.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Trevor asked.

  “Let this play out for a bit. Our orders are to engage brigands. If it is a trap or if her village is under attack, it is the same thing.”

  “Then we should prepare for the worst,” Trevor said.

  “I would,” Boxster said.

  Sometimes Boxster’s lessons were given at inappropriate times, Trevor thought as he stopped the column so the men could put on their bits of armor. Trevor didn’t like wearing his helmet in the forest, but it had been necessary for his protection on the last patrol, and he only had to put it on once before when he sent Boxster to talk to the villagers.

  As the path shrunk to little more than a game trail, they heard the clash of arms up ahead. Trevor ordered three of Liftson’s men to guard the wagon as the rest of the company rushed toward the sounds. Boxster sent the scouts into the woods so they could emerge on the fight from the other side as flankers.

  As they converged on the fight, an arrow careened off Trevor’s helmet. He jumped off his horse and grabbed his bow and quiver and ran into the forest.

  “Direct the men!” he said to Boxster as he jumped over a low bush and headed through the trees.

  In a few strides, an arrow struck a tree instead of Trevor. He paused just long enough to see where it came from and took off again. He finally found a shooting spot and n
ocked an arrow. His opponent hit the edge of the tree, throwing fragments into Trevor’s face. He peeked from that side again, found an elbow, and shot. His aim was excellent, and the man dropped a bow and arrow.

  Trevor ran toward his enemy, still in full armor, and tripped on a root or a dead branch. It didn’t matter which it was, since the effect was the same, as he fell sprawled on the ground. The injured archer had pulled a long knife and was running toward him. As the man got closer, Trevor pulled out his sword and began to fight the man while on his back. Trevor swung and connected, cutting the archer’s calf. The attacker fell on Trevor and raised his knife to plunge it into Trevor’s exposed face.

  Trevor wasn’t injured, so he quickly rolled to his left, barely evading the edge of the knife as it slid across the metal of the side of his helmet. As he continued his roll, he brought up his sword and sliced into the midsection of his enemy as he finished his turn. He rolled another time and struggled to get to his feet, ready for another attack, but there wasn’t one to come.

  Trevor wiped his sword on the man’s clothes and jammed it back into his scabbard as he plucked up his bow and quiver and ran toward the fighting. He stood at the edge of a small meadow. The fight was on. The company still outnumbered the assailants, and Trevor took the role of an archer and began to empty his quiver into the enemy.

  With one arrow left, he looked across the meadow to see the woman in the lane sneaking up on Boxster as he fought one of the brigands, a wicked knife in her hand. Her malevolent eyes were glued to the sergeant as Trevor took a deep, regretful breath to calm himself and shot his arrow into the side of her chest. She dropped immediately, and it appeared that Boxster had no idea he was in peril as he fought on ignoring the woman’s demise.

  It was time to wade into the fight, but there weren’t many brigands left, and the company made quick work of the rest.

  “Why did you fight us?” Boxster asked a wheezing brigand while he knelt at the attacker’s side.

  “We fight anyone. Pristine shouldn’t have dragged you into our net. Where is she?”

  “Dead,” Trevor said, walking up. “She was about to put a knife in the back of my friend here.”

  “She didn’t deserve to die,” the dying man sadly said as he took his last breath.