Honor Found (The Spare Heir)

by Southwick, Michael

  “If I’m able, yes sir.”

  “We nearly lost you Rim. I’m having a hard time believing you’re alive, let alone standing. By all rights you should be dead. If you’d like to be assigned to the keep for a while it could be arranged.”

  Jorem shook his head. “An old man once told me if we always take the easy path, we’ll only see what’s already been seen, only be what we’ve always been.”

  “If anyone else asked for leave I’d say they were running away, but I’ve never seen you run. You’re a good man and I trust you. Fact is, when you get back I want you to be one of my lieutenants. The men respect you and most would follow wherever you lead.”

  Jorem shook his head dismissively. The captain’s words made him feel uncomfortable. He was certain the captain was exaggerating to an extreme. He got along fairly well with most of the men, but as for them following him, he didn’t think so. Most were older and far more experienced than he. There was still so much he didn’t know. So much he had yet to learn.

  “I’ll get my things and be on my way as soon as I can,” Jorem said. “The sooner I start the sooner I’ll be back.”

  “Terence,” the captain said, turning to the man next to him. “Saddle my roan and bring him to my tent. Rim, I have a packet of reports I need delivered to the Duke. And Rim, I’ll be wanting my horse back.”

  It didn’t take long to pack. The power stone was gone, a forgotten pile of dust. His armor was a useless jumble of torn and bloody leather. He didn’t even have a shirt to wear. Hopefully he could get a spare shirt from the supply wagon. All he had of his own were his sword and his bedroll. On the bright side, the horse wouldn’t be weighed down with equipment. He would be able to make good time, weather permitting.

  Chapter XX

  The ride back to Broughbor was a frenzied, adrenaline-filled blur. The trail was easy enough to follow. Between all the men and wagons trudging this route, the path was clear as day. Even with a trail so easy to follow Jorem was unwilling to travel too late into night. When the clouds thinned there still wasn’t enough light from the moon and stars to see rocks and holes. Injuring the captain’s horse because of unnecessary haste would gain him nothing. It would, in fact, just slow him even more. Sometimes the old adages had truth in them. In order to go fast you have to slow down.

  During the day they would race at the horse’s best possible speed. The roan had an odd canter that covered a lot of ground without rattling Jorem’s teeth out of his head. When he noticed the horse tiring they would slow to a walk. Occasionally they would stop near streams for short rests and a bite to eat. The grass in the area wasn’t up enough for the roan to forage so Jorem carried a bag of mixed oats and grain. The horse showed no hesitation in letting his rider know when he was hungry.

  By the time he reached the Broken Arms Inn, both he and the roan were sweaty, filthy and weary to the bone. Other than a few marks at night and the occasional stop to rest his mount, he had ridden for three days straight. He was sore in places he didn’t want to think about. As he got off the horse he nearly fell to the ground, his legs were so weak and sore. Walking was painful and sitting was worse. An old guardsman had once warned him of what happened to those who rode without conditioning themselves to the saddle. Now he understood the warning all too clearly.

  The roan was a fine animal. The horse had given Jorem everything it had without complaint. He left the roan in a warm stall at the inn with a bucket of warm mash. It slurped the mash up with relish and lipped the bottom of the trough to get every last morsel. Jorem was fairly certain the horse was asleep before he made it out of the barn. The stable hand was nowhere to be seen, but Jorem had no worries about the care of the captain’s horse. Shelby cared far more for the animals he tended than anything else. One look at the roan and the man would be lavishing it with care.

  It was late afternoon when he walked through the Inn’s front door. The commons room was quiet. It was too early for the evening crowd to arrive, and too late for the afternoon crowd to still be there. Daisy was sitting at the front counter. She looked up when he entered, but he was so covered in dirt, grime and sweat that she didn’t recognize him.

  Jorem strolled over to the counter. “This packet needs to be delivered to Duke Rodney,” he said, plopping the pouch on the counter. “If anyone should come asking, Prince Jorem will be asleep in his room.”

  “Jorem!” she squeaked.

  Daisy lunged across the counter and wrapped her arms around his neck, heedless of the grime he was covered with. After a tight squeeze, she released him. She looked down at the dirt now smudged on her blouse and arms and shook her head.

  “Must you always come in here after rolling in the dirt?” she said with a smile on her face. “To the bath with you, then you can sleep.”

  “I’d bow, but I think I’d fall over if I did,” Jorem teased back, then headed for the bathing room.

  A soft cozy robe awaited him after he’d dried off. A bowl of hot stew, some bread and a mug of hot apple cider had been left on the table next to his bed. The thoughtfulness of their care for him touched him deeply. These people had come to mean a great deal to him. They treated him like family, real family. To them he was not just another heir, a spare at that. With a smile on his face he wolfed down the food, curled up on his bed and was fast asleep in moments.

  A light tapping at his door roused Jorem from his slumber. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. The room was quite dark so he reached for the candle kept by his bed. His hand bumped the candle, knocking it over. Listening in the dark he heard the candle drop off the table and roll across the floor. He just shook his head. Some things never change. Without a doubt the candle was now well out of reach.

  Someone tapped at the door again.

  “Yeah, what is it?” Jorem asked through a yawn.

  The door opened, allowing bright light to stream into the room. Jorem squinted and raised a hand to block the light that fell on his face. He felt rested but still tired. With no idea of the time, or the day for that matter, he sat up and stretched. Daisy’s head poked through the slightly open door. She took a cautious half step into his room. Casting a glance behind her, she stopped and curtsied lowly.

  “My Lord, Prince Jorem,” she said, keeping her gaze focused on the floor. “You’ve visitors as wish to speak with you.” Her voice was clear and echoed off the walls of the room she spoke so loudly.

  “You know I really hate that,” Jorem said quietly.

  When she didn’t respond, Jorem realized her performance was not for him but for someone outside his room. With her acting so formal it had to be either the Duke or someone of rank from the capital. No one else impressed the women working at the inn to this extent. Familiarity breeds a casualness of attitude. Most of them treated Jorem like a younger brother. They treated Pertheron, the duke’s son, with a little more deference, mostly because of his stern attitude. So this was likely the messenger from the king, a ranking noble apparently.

  “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Tell them I’ll be with them shortly. Oh, and could you hand me that candle on your way out?”

  Daisy retrieved the candle from the corner it had escaped to. She placed the candle back in its holder and lit it. The soft light illuminated her face. She had been shadowed from the light coming from the hallway before. She was watching him intently, concern written in her expression. She had something she needed to tell him but couldn’t take the chance of being overheard.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Jorem whispered.

  “A day and half again another,” she replied just as quietly. “There’s a man with some guards. Says he’s from the King. He looks mighty important. Are ye in trouble with the king? Ifn’s ye needs we could distract them while ye run.”

  Jorem couldn’t help but smile. “And leave a fair maiden to fight my battles? I’d sooner face the fury of a dragon than put thee at the mercy of such men.”

  His act was not lost on her. They’d played at this game many ti
mes. With a wink of her eye, Daisy turned and left, leaving Jorem to gather his wits and get dressed. He’d slept for a day and a half. It was hard to believe. He vaguely recalled getting up a few times to relieve himself, but nothing more. For having slept for so long, he still felt groggy. He knew he’d better have a clear head before he left his room.

  After splashing some water on his face and hair from a basin, Jorem started rummaging through his chest. He spent quite a bit of time searching for something to wear. He no longer had anything “princely” that came even close to fitting. What did fit ranged between serviceable and tattered. Looking at what clothes he had on hand he resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t dress as one of the King’s sons. Instead he decided to go for a competent and slightly dangerous look, definitely not something anyone from the capital would expect of the Prince Jorem they knew and generally distained.

  He donned his ovack skin armor. It was an unsightly, splotchy, yellow tan when he bought it. Now it had the addition of grass and dirt stains, not to mention blood, mostly his own, to add to the general ugliness of it. One thing it did do, though, was fit well. With the lacing on both sides of shirt and pants it could be as tight or loose as he chose. After all the abuse it had seen, it was still supple and sturdy. Putting the myriad of blades into all of the hidden compartments took a while.

  The blades actually acted as part of the armor as well as weapons and had saved his bones from many of Neth’s attacks. Out of habit he strapped his sword to his back in the manner he’d learned from Neth. Next he tucked the dagger the Folk had given him into its special sheath behind his neck. Jorem regarded himself in the small mirror he’d gotten awhile back to hang on the wall of his room. The stranger looking back at him looked far surer of himself than Jorem felt.

  Just for appearances, he decided to wear the ornate sword given to him by his father. It was smaller and lighter than he remembered it being when it was gifted to him. Even with the doeskin covering the gem-studded grip, the sword had been a beautiful piece. Without the covering the gems sparkled and flashed. The polished blade still gleamed in the candlelight. Between the gems and the blade, the light reflecting from the candles threw a prism of color about the room.

  He strapped the scabbard of the princely blade on his right hip for a left hand draw. The blade hissed smoothly against the leather as he slid it into place. He wasn’t as good with his left hand, but he’d learned to use it to good effect. Not that he’d had a choice. Neth had bound his right hand behind his back whenever she thought he was slacking. Even with all the blades he was carrying, he still felt less constrained than when in the leather armor he’d worn as a scout.

  He knew he had taken more time getting ready than was polite. Whoever was waiting on him was likely becoming impatient. Settling himself, Jorem squared his shoulders and headed for the commons room. As he strode down the hallway, he was the picture of calm on the outside. On the inside there was more than a little turmoil. That his father sent a rider was reason for concern. That the rider had guards of his own was reason for worry.

  The healer said his brother Farthon had fallen from his horse. Could it have been more serious than a twisted leg? Was he needed to lead one of the four battalions of the King’s army? Could he lead a battalion? Would men actually follow him, or would he be a shiny figurehead kept far from battle? How bad would things have to be for the king to assign “the spare” to lead one of the battalions? With each step another worrisome thought came to mind.

  Chapter XXI

  Jorem’s inner thought and self-doubts were interrupted by loud voices raised in argument. He might have worried, but in all the time he’d spent at the inn there hadn’t been so much as a minor brawl, other than the fiasco his brothers had caused. Somehow it was understood by everyone that if you caused trouble at the Broken Arms Inn you’d get, well, broken arms. The sight greeting him as he entered the commons was so comical he couldn’t help but smile. The power of a man should never be determined by his size.

  A tall, slender man with a haughty face, hawk nose and thin mustache stood rigid and incensed. Black oily hair hung limply down to his shoulders. Two hulking guards stood at each shoulder of the thin man. The guards looked sullen, like a pair of storm clouds about to loose their fury. Blocking the way to the inner rooms of the inn was Biorne. Little more than half the height of the thin man, Biorne stood with his arms folded and in impassible look on his face.

  “I don’t care who you are,” Biorne said in a gritty voice. “Prince Jorem is a guest in my inn. He has been informed of your wish to see him. You can wait for him here or you can wait for him outside. If you harass my help again, you’ll wait for him at the city stockade.”

  Jorem sauntered up behind Biorne as though nothing at all were amiss. Putting his hand on his hip in a gesture of complete indifference, he glared at the thin man. He didn’t recognize the man, but by the quality of his clothing he guessed him to be of the king’s inner council. There was always a parade of nobles falling in and out of the king’s good graces. The self-importance of the man’s attitude irked Jorem more than anything. His brothers thinking themselves better than others, that they were somehow owed everything they wanted, had caused a lot of misery for a lot of people. This man seemed made of the same cloth.

  “All right,” Jorem said in as hard a voice as he could muster, “I’m here. What do you want?”

  “I am Baron Ver’Sneliss,” the man said in an intolerably haughty tone of voice. “I have come on orders of the King to collect Prince Jorem and escort him to the capital.”

  “Really,” Jorem said flatly.

  “The King will hear of this outrage if I don’t see Prince Jorem immediately.”

  “I’m Prince Jorem,” Jorem said with deadly calm, “and if your manners represent what passes for civil at home, it’s no wonder the kingdom is having problems.”

  The man’s shock was palpable. The silence in the room was deafening. The man’s eye slowly traveled from Jorem’s feet up. Then his head tilted up until he looked Jorem in the eyes. Obviously Jorem was not what he was expecting. He'd come to corral a young, sniveling boy. Faced with a tall, lean man, hardened at the forge and honed with harsh remorseless training, Jorem almost felt sorry for him, almost.

  “Prince,” the man’s voice cracked. “Prince Jorem?”

  “So they keep telling me,” Jorem said, tilting his head to the side. “Is there a reason for your rudeness to my hosts? And it better be a good reason.”

  Obviously shaken, the man stammered, “The king sent me to collect—.” The man’s voice froze at the look in Jorem’s eyes.

  “Prince Jorem,” the man started over with an effort to compose himself. “King Halden has ordered that you lead a battalion of the royal army.”

  “What of my brothers?” Jorem asked with concern.

  “They are well,” the man assured him. “The King is organizing a fifth battalion for a special assignment.”

  Jorem’s eyebrows arched. There had never been a fifth battalion. Not in all the histories of the kingdom had he read of such a thing. Something in this puzzle did not fit. There was in this a tune being played off key. If his brothers were all well then someone was playing a game of some sort. His reputation at the castle for being clumsy was known throughout the land. No one there would ever seriously consider putting him in charge of anything, let alone one of the king’s battalions.

  “Come, sit,” the caution in Jorem’s voice was not well hidden. “Say on, good sir. Ever am I the servant of the king.”

  For the moment they had their choice of tables. The inn’s usual crowd had yet to arrive. That would change in short order. Jorem chose a table off to the side, giving them some privacy but not so much that Ver’Sneliss or his guard would try anything underhanded. Jorem didn’t trust this man, nor the guards he traveled with. More than once he’d read of nobles making off with a royal for reasons less than well-intentioned. The more people who saw him with these men the better it would b
e.

  “The king fears our enemies might march through the mountain passes to attack us unaware. You are to march forth to prevent this.” The man’s tone was low and conspiratorial.

  Again, something rang untrue. Jorem held his gaze steady. The unease in the man’s eyes told Jorem there was something he was not being told.

  “Leave us!” Jorem said, glaring at the guards. He then placed a gentle hand on Biorne’s shoulder. “Thank you, Biorne. I can handle it from here.”

  Without so much as a backward glance, Biorne sauntered over to the counter. Jorem motioned the man to be seated at the table. Once seated, he signaled a serving girl to bring food and drink. Daisy had them served quickly, with another curtsy to boot.

  Jorem took a long drink and set his mug down. “Sir?” Jorem prompted for a name.

  “Baron Radworth Ver’Sneliss, special messenger to the King,” the man said importantly.

  “Sir Radworth, I think we both know there is no fifth battalion. Never has been, never will be. So what’s this really about?”

  “Prince Jorem, I assure you that—.” Radworth’s face grew redder as he spoke.

  “Stop!” Jorem said, holding up a hand. Taking a deep breath, Jorem slowly exhaled. “King Halden wouldn’t trust me to guard his cattle,” he said bluntly. “He certainly wouldn’t put me in charge of anything critical to the safety of the Kingdom. I’m not the boy the King remembers. Tell me the truth now. Out with it.”

  Radworth mulled over what Jorem had said and seemed to come to a decision. Before he spoke, he checked over his shoulder to be sure no one would overhear.