Disenchanted

by Kroese, Robert

  No, Boric admitted to himself, his desire to help Milah stemmed not from the value of the mirrors but rather from the fact that she was a smart, pretty redhead with perfectly formed alabaster breasts. The thought of her breasts, in fact, set him off on a renewed attempt to devise some way of making her scheme work — or at least letting her down easy. If he could find her a nice house in Brobdingdon and set her up with some honest, respectable work in the castle — maybe as a scullery maid or seamstress — she might forget about this whole business with the mirrors. A dusty old laboratory filled with bubbling potions and whatever else one found in a laboratory was no place for a beautiful young woman anyway. With time she’d come to realize that, and be grateful to Boric for rescuing her from a life of fruitless toil. He couldn’t marry her, of course; that was out of the question. But perhaps he could, ahem, visit her occasionally.

  At some point, she was going to figure out that his father was the king. If she was as smart as he suspected, that point would be about three seconds after some Brobdingdon peasant called out “Hail, Prince Boric!” at the sight of him. Okay, so he would have to tell her before they got to Brobdingdon. He would explain to her that he had many enemies and was therefore traveling under an assumed name — which was true — and apologize that he hadn’t trusted her with his secret. She would understand that, right? Of course she would; she had pretended to be a man for a year. She knew the value of deception. Then he would explain that his father was temperamental and old-fashioned, and that they would need to find another alchemist — a man, of course — to be the figurehead of the operation. Boric would find someone he could trust, someone who would pretend to have meetings with the king and reassure Milah that he and Boric had just about convinced the king to provide the money. They would drag this out for months, and meanwhile Milah would settle into her new life, get comfortable, and start to wonder why she had ever wanted to putter around a laboratory making mirrors. When Boric finally broke the news to her, she would just shrug her shoulders and dismiss the whole thing as the unrealistic dream of a child.

  About an hour out of Brobdingdon, the road widened again and Milah came up beside him. “Milah,” Boric said. “I have to tell you something about my father. What I was trying to tell you last night. He’s… not just some nobleman in Brobdingdon.”

  Mila stared at him in shock. “You lied to me? You’re father’s not a nobleman?”

  “No, no,” said Boric. “He is. He’s the king.”

  Milah scowled. “Don’t mock me, Derek. I’m not some foolish girl who will believe anything you tell me.”

  “I’m not mocking you,” said Boric. “And my name isn’t Derek. I’m Boric, Prince of Ytrisk, son of Toric. I’m third in line to the throne.” And hopefully soon I’ll be first, thought Boric, if I can get to my father before my brothers poison his mind against me.

  Milah’s eyes widened in awe as she realized Boric was telling her the truth. “That’s…that’s wonderful!” she squealed. “We can go directly to the king then! We’ll make the case for funding my laboratory together! How can he say no to his own son?”

  This wasn’t going the way Boric planned. How had he given Milah the impression that he was on board with her crazy mirror scheme? At most he had led her to believe that he would mention it to his father, whom she believed to be just one of many noblemen who had some contact with King Toric. Her faith in the compelling nature of her idea was clouding her sense of reality.

  Boric explained to her that even though he was a prince, they couldn’t just barge in on the king and hit him up for a hundred thousand gold pieces. They would have to develop their case and wait for an opportune time to present it. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he would have to find a more respectable figure to act as the figurehead of their project and that she was unlikely ever to meet the king herself. He’d have to break that to her later. She accepted what he told her with aplomb, but Boric could see the disappointment on her face.

  When they arrived at Brobdingdon, Boric arranged for Milah to stay with a widow whose husband had been a long-time servant and friend of the king. Milah would be comfortable there and would have no direct contact with the king. Boric promised her he would return in a few days with word on the king’s willingness to fund her laboratory. She thanked him cordially, and he went on to Kra’al Brobdingdon without her in the hopes of securing his right to the crown. He needn’t have worried on that score. The king welcomed him with open arms.

  “Boric!” cried King Toric as Boric entered the king’s reception room. “The news of your success reached me just after dawn. The ogre has been slain then? The children in the southern towns are safe?”

  “Indeed,” Boric replied, bowing as he approached his father. “The creature is dead.”

  Toric smiled, motioning for him to stand. “Then I suppose I shall need to update my will.”

  Boric couldn’t help smiling as he got to his feet. “I must say, Father, that I half expected my brothers would have managed to convince you that the ogre was a great uncle of yours and that by slaying it I was doing you a grave personal insult.”

  Toric chortled. “Perhaps a cousin of your mother’s,” the king replied, winking at Boric. “Do you take me for a fool, Boric? Why do you think I sent you on this errand?”

  “Sent me?” asked Boric. “Begging your pardon, father, I volunteered.”

  Toric laughed again. “What choice did you have? You weren’t about to spend the rest of your short life on that miserable little island, overseeing the pumice mines. I’m not as dense as you think I am, Boric. Neither of your brothers is fit to rule Ytrisk when I’m gone, but I couldn’t very well pass them over without a compelling reason. Slaying the ogre was a test, a way for you to prove you were more worthy than your brothers. You each had an equal chance, and they chose to let you take the risk, hoping you would fail.”

  Yoric did more than hope, thought Boric. He had sent a servant to lie in wait in the stables and stick Boric between the ribs while he was picking a horse for his journey. If the man hadn’t been suffering from hay fever and sneezed at an inopportune time, Boric might be dead. He would have liked to see the man put on trial, but in his surprise Boric knocked the man to the floor of the stable, and he was trampled by a horse that had been spooked by the scuffle. Boric knew the servant was a tool of Yoric’s, but technically he worked for the king and Boric had no proof of their conspiracy. Rather than reveal that he knew about Yoric’s plot, Boric had left the dead man to be discovered by the stable hands and let Yoric ponder whether Boric had killed him. He wondered if his father had heard about the servant and whether he suspected anything. Boric thought it best not to bring it up; Toric was, generally speaking, a just and intelligent man, but he inexplicably loved each of his sons equally. Boric had found that it was better to let his father come to his own conclusions about Yoric and Goric, believing that he would make the right decisions eventually. That reasoning appeared to be borne out by his father’s decision to honor his pledge to make the ogre-slayer his heir. What Boric didn’t realize at this point was that there was more to the bargain.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Boric,” said the king. “Now that you’re my designated heir, I have some matters to discuss with you.” He gestured for Boric to sit with him and ordered the servants to bring them some wine. When the servants left, Toric spoke in somber tones to his son.

  “You’re a very brave young man, Boric. Clever, too. However, you are also vain, prideful, and occasionally very foolish.”

  “I beg your pardon, father,” Boric replied, stunned at this sharp turn in the conversation. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “I received two messages this morning,” the king said. “The first was of your slaying of the ogre. The second was of your encounter with Prince Corbet of Skaal.”

  Blast! thought Boric. Daman or Padmos must have spilled his secret and Corbet had caught wind of it. He probably ran all the way home and blubbered to his father, King
Celiac.

  “That fool was going to get himself killed, along with two innocent villagers whom he planned to use as bait,” Boric said.

  “Are these the same two villagers who assisted you in killing the ogre?”

  “They are.”

  “And how did you use them exactly?”

  “Well, as bait. But the salient point is that they survived and were paid well for their efforts. Corbet would have gotten them both killed.”

  “So you humiliated him.”

  “I beat him in a fair fight.”

  “Did you?” asked Toric, his face turning red. “The fight isn’t over, Boric. When you picked a fight with the Crown Prince of Skaal, you started a war between Ytrisk and Skaal. Celiac has been looking for an excuse to take back the southern provinces, and now he has one. He’s already begun amassing troops at the border.”

  “Then I will lead an army against him!” Boric exclaimed. “I’ll beat them back to the swamp from which they crawled!”

  “You will do no such thing,” growled Toric. “The northern provinces are on the verge of revolt. I’ve had to send every spare regiment up there to keep order. We’re in no position to muster an army against Skaal. Tomorrow morning I’m sending Goric to Skaal to lobby King Celiac for peace.”

  “Goric?” asked Boric dubiously. “Please tell me our hopes for peace with Skaal are not riding on the diplomatic finesse of that surly dolt, Goric. Send me, father. I’ll smooth things over with that pompous jackaninny Corbet and his hairy baboon of a father.”

  “I can see that your heart would be in it,” replied his father coolly. “No, Boric, I need you here.”

  “Here? Why? What can I possibly do here?”

  His father smiled. “You can marry Princess Urgulana of Peraltia.”

  Episode Four

  FIFTEEN

  Just as the predawn gloom was gathering in the east, Boric heard voices coming from near the town center of New Threfelton. Something in the hushed urgency of the voices worried him. He crept up the alley until he could make out the words. It was as he feared: more strangers with covered faces and bearing swords had been spotted in another threfeling village some ten miles to the northwest. There had been three of them, skulking about the town and asking questions. Boric realized he knew about the other wraiths before he heard the words; he could sense them not far off, the way one could hear a fly buzzing around a house. He had no sense of which direction they lay, but he had no reason to doubt the account of the threfelings.

  “They’re looking for me,” said Boric, stepping out of the alley and giving the group of threfelings a start. It was the mayor, Chad, and the bailiff who had strived so heroically to deprive Boric of his sword. “It’s all right,” Boric went on. “I’m leaving. I think they are drawn to the sword. They won’t stick around long if I’m not here.”

  “But they will pursue you,” said the mayor.

  “Yes.”

  “These men, they are like you?” asked the mayor.

  “They share my condition, yes,” replied Boric.

  “Then they won’t come after you in the daytime,” said the mayor. “The sun is almost up now.”

  The bailiff added, “As of an hour ago, they were still in Farthington. I took a shortcut that they wouldn’t know about and wouldn’t be able to take on horseback anyway. I don’t think they will be here anytime soon.”

  “So there’s no point in leaving now,” said Chad. “You can’t ought to travel in the daytime. If you sneak out just before dark, we can should stall them — ”

  “Stall them!” cried Boric. “You’ll only stall them for as long as it takes for them to run you through with their swords.”

  “No,” said the mayor. “Boric, you are our guest. We won’t have you fleeing for your life. You sought sanctuary in our town, and it is our duty to protect you from these men.”

  “Mayor,” said Boric patiently, eying the brightening glare in the east, “I greatly appreciate your hospitality and willingness to aid me in my plight, but you are pissing against the wind, if you’ll pardon the expression. These men won’t stop until I join them. They can’t be stopped. Even if you had weapons, which you don’t, there is nothing that — Gaaahhh!” The first rays of sunlight pierced Boric’s eye sockets, bringing him to his knees.

  “Get him to the cellar,” said the mayor. “And call a meeting of the town watch. We’ve got some preparations to make for our visitors this evening.” Someone found a tarp to throw over Boric’s head, and he was ushered back to his cellar for the day.

  Just after nightfall three horsemen dressed all in black came riding into New Threfelton, ducking as they passed under the New Threfelton Arch, on which was inscribed the New Threfelton motto, “We Don’t Want Any Trouble.” The town was dark and the streets were empty, but the hum of their swords told them their prey was somewhere close by. They followed the main thoroughfare to the town center, where they saw a tall figure standing alone at the bottom of a bowl-shaped impression in the ground. The men dismounted and approached the pit.

  “Slaagtghast,” called the one who had been Corbet. “Join us.”

  “No thanks,” answered Boric. “I like it here. Nice people, the threfelings. I may take up pig farming. Or become a shepherd, maybe. I understand the sheep here hardly ever commit suicide.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Slaagtghast. You are a wraith. You have no place among the living. Your destiny is to serve Brand.”

  “Make me,” said Boric.

  The three wraiths hissed as they made their way down the slope. When they had reached the bottom, they drew their swords and advanced on their prey. The lone figure retreated a few paces, but the three wraiths spread out to prevent his escape. They advanced closer, until they were within a sword’s length.

  “Don’t make us destroy what’s left of your body, Slaagtghast. Your spirit is coming with us either way.”

  “You’re going to have to take me in pieces,” said Boric. “As long as I can stand, I won’t be coming with you.”

  “It makes no difference to us,” hissed the wraith, raising its sword and bringing the blade down just at the shoulder joint of Boric’s armor, lopping off the arm.

  “Do you yield?” hissed the wraith.

  “Yield? Why would I yield?” asked Boric.

  “Your arm’s off!” said the wraith.

  “No it isn’t,” said Boric.

  “Then what’s that?” asked the wraith, indicating the arm lying in the straw.

  “I’ve had worse,” said Boric.

  The wraith sliced off the other arm. “Cease this foolishness and come with us!”

  “I’m still standing, aren’t I?” taunted Boric.

  The wraith howled with rage and sliced at the figure’s legs. But before he could make contact, the figure suddenly leaped into the air, disappearing into the trees above. The wraiths stood, dumbfounded, staring up at the trees. By the time they realized they had walked into a trap, it was too late. Dozens of clay jars fell from the trees, breaking into pieces on the hard ground and drenching the straw with oil. A second later, a torch flared to life, spinning and sputtering as it fell to the ground smack in the middle of the three wraiths. Fire engulfed them as they ran screaming, waving their arms wildly, blinded by pain and rage. They fell to the grass, rolling and patting at their cloaks to put out the flames. Still smoldering, they scrambled up the slope and disappeared into the night.

  The threfeling puppeteers let down a rope and climbed down from the tree. Several of them grabbed rakes and moved the burning straw away from the center of the amphitheater. Chad felt in the dirt for a handle, found it and pulled. A trap door opened and Boric climbed out.

  “They’re gone!” Chad exclaimed. “We did it!”

  “For now,” said Boric, shielding himself from the glare of the flames. “They will be back. I need to leave now, while they are still recovering.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Tell them I headed south,” said Boric
>
  “There’s nothing to the south but rocks.”

  “They may believe that I only want to get as far from civilization as possible.”

  “But you’re not really going south.”

  Boric shrugged. “Tell them I am headed south. Don’t put up a fight. If you tell them what they want to know, they shouldn’t give you any trouble. They won’t waste time with you if it means losing me.”

  “What’s going to happen to you, Boric? Will you be able to find a cure for your condition?”

  Boric shook his head. “I wish I knew. Good-bye, Chad. Thank you all for your hospitality.” He bowed in deference to the threfelings.

  “Good-bye, Boric. Good luck.”

  Boric turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  SIXTEEN

  The Kingdom of Peraltia, to the east of Ytrisk, is the least populous, least powerful, and overall the least interesting of the Six Kingdoms, being composed of the provinces that were not particularly coveted by Ytrisk, Skaal, or Avaress. Other than being the home of several hundred thousand relatively comfortable sheep, Peraltia is historically best known as a stabilizer in the relationship between Ytrisk and Skaal. Whenever either of the two kingdoms became powerful enough to start thinking about finally putting an end to the threat posed by its rival, Peraltia would shift its weight in favor of the weaker kingdom — generally in exchange for some additional trade concessions or, in some cases, an outright bribe. Peraltia’s military was not particularly large or formidable, its claim to having never lost a battle being somewhat undermined by the fact that its military had never been in a battle. Still, the ten thousand men goose-stepping around the Peraltian capital in tin hats were an X factor that couldn’t be ignored by either potential belligerent. No one with any tactical experience expected the Peraltians to be able to mount any sort of creditable offense, but morale among Peraltian foot soldiers was reported to be so high that there was genuine concern on both sides that the Peraltian army wouldn’t have the common sense to rout even when facing the prospect of certain massacre, continuing to advance until every Peraltian had been killed. Such an advance would have the effect of tying up a sizeable defensive force for several hours, tilting the odds slightly in favor of Peraltia’s chosen ally. Anyway, that was the theory that was floated by tacticians on both sides of the Ytrisk-Skaal border, and no king had yet been brave or foolhardy enough to test it. So ever since the fall of the Old Realm, an uneasy peace punctuated by occasional halfhearted wars reigned between the two rivals — and meanwhile Peraltia made up for what it lacked in resources by extorting money from both sides.