by Ron Miller
“I think Payne is back in Blavek, we know he must be, from the letters. I think he knows exactly where I was headed...he wouldn’t believe me dead without seeing a body and he would never accept my merely being ‘lost’. He’d assume the worst, which is that I’m alive, and act on it. He’s sent that army to either stop me from getting to you, or to stop you from taking the letters south. I’m absolutely convinced of it.”
“And I believe you’re right. But there’s a full brigade here, more than three thousand men. There’s no way he’d be able to send a comparable force to the border, certainly not on such short notice, he can’t have has more than, what? Three or four days? And at that, those men, only a few hundred?, must’ve been force-marched for more than four straight days. What can he be hoping to accomplish? I can easily smash anything he can send here.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate him, Piers.”
“I don’t.”
Less than an hour passes before one of the scouts returns. The news he bears is disturbing: the small force approaching the camp carries at its head the quartered orange-and-white banner of Tamlaght, with the scarlet double-headed eagle of the royal house superimposed on one white field. That indicates the presence of a member of the royal family and that can only be one person: Ferenc. Both Bronwyn and Piers are puzzled by the unexpected presence of the heir apparent. It is as though one of the moons has strayed from its orbit.
Ferenc’s little army halts not more than a mile from Piers’s camp and a courier is sent ahead. The message he bears is the expects one: a peremptory command for the baron to appear before the prince.
“Bronwyn,” he asks, showing her the order, “do you think your brother has any reason to believe you’re here, or that I already have the letters he seeks?”
“No, that is, he can’t know for certain, anyway.”
“Keep well out of sight, then. It’s unlikely you can be identified in this weather and in that uniform, but let’s not take any chances. I’m keeping my cavalry mounts for the time being. He may simply try to do nothing but block my return south.”
“And if he is?”
“I’ll force my way through.”
“You can’t do that! You’d have to raise arms against your own prince and the heir apparent, that’d be treason! Your men’d be justified in mutinying! They’d be in jeopardy of hanging. Nor would the barons ever support doing such a thing! It’d be tantamount to civil war.”
“What you say is true enough. Well, I’ll just have to see what he wants and then we’ll decide what to do.”
“You’re going to meet him then? Is that wise?”
“What would you suggest? He’s your brother, after all; who should know him better?”
“I think he’d only be here if he are under the most severe duress, the kind of leverage only Payne can use on him. And Payne wouldn’t be using Ferenc if he doesn’t feel that he has good reason to: after all, he doesn’t have any more faith in Ferenc’s abilities than I do. What he does have in Ferenc is my brother’s position, his rank. As I’ve just says, you can’t oppose him without becoming a traitor. If that happens, you’ll be fair game for Payne and there’s not a soul who can save you. It may be just what he’s trying to goad you into doing. Please be careful, Piers!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give orders to keep the men at ready; this ought to be resolved one way or another in the next hour or so. But I won’t meet him on his own ground. He must come here. You think he’d do that?”
“I think so, if his trip here has been the experience for him it must’ve been.”
“All right then, I’ll send the message. Until you hear otherwise from me, keep well out of sight.”
The reply to the baron’s answer came quickly: the prince would be only too happy to meet him in the larger encampment, seeing as how the baron is kind enough to offer the camp’s amenities to visiting royalty. Privately, Ferenc looks forward to hot water, decent food and perhaps even a comfortable, warm place to spend at least one night. Doubtless there are no women to be had. Sighing, he decides he’ll just have to make do the best he can.
Ferenc rides into the camp alone, save for two Guard cavalrymen. These remain mounted while the prince climbs from his horse and enters the baron’s tent. Piers rises from his camp desk to meet him, hand outstretched in greeting. There is not a soul present who would be able to discover a single false note in either gesture or expression.
“Welcome, Your Highness, Cousin Ferenc! Please be seated: you must be exhausted!”
A little confused by the warmth of the welcome, which he has not at all expected, the prince obeys.
“I only wish I’d had some warning of your impending arrival,” continues the baron. “You find us wholly unprepared for your visit. I must apologize!”
“No, no! My mission here, ah, is to be, that is, it’s a secret. No one is to know!”
“What’s it all about, then? May I offer you wine? Hot tea?”
“Yes, please, thank you, cousin. Wine would excellent. Ah! It’s good to be warm again! Mind if I move this chair a little closer to the stove?”
“Anything you wish, of course, please. It’s a pleasure to see you, I must say, even if an unexpected one. Seeing you here, of all places, is like”, he gropes for an image, “like seeing the statue of Saint Wladimir in Blavek Cathedral suddenly taking a stroll down Pordka Avenue!”
He laughs at the picture of the hundred tons of bronze on an afternoon amble, but the prince’s face darkens.
“Look here, Piers, I know all of you think I’m just a useless dandy, but I have depths you know, depths! Deep ones!”
“Well, of course you do! Just look at you! Not many can have undertaken such a harrowing mission, such an arduous journey! Certainly not any heads of state I can think of. What, then, is so important it brings you here in person?”
“Perfidy, Cousin! Infamy and treason!”
“Yes? And in what form?”
“There’re those who wish to destroy me! To prevent me from taking my rightful place on the throne! They wish to destroy the one person whom I can trust...”
“Your sister?”
“No, no, for Musrum’s sake! Payne Roelt! The one person whom I can trust. They want to destroy him with their lies and, and manufactured evidence!”
“Evidence? Evidence of what?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve come here directly, myself, so you can learn from my own lips what the truth is.”
“The truth about what, Ferenc? I don’t understand.”
“There’re people, traitors, who’d like nothing better than to see me dethroned, that’s blasphemy, you realize that, don’t you? What has been ordained by Musrum cannot be defied without committing blasphemy! The throne is mine by Musrum’s own dictation; it can’t be taken away from me! There’re those who’d want to see that happen, though, and to carry out their evil plans they’ll stop at nothing. Absolutely nothing, you understand? We’ve learned, I’ve learned, that these people have planned to use you to their ends...”
“Me?”
“Through your influence with the baronage, they’d use you as their tool for destroying us, me.”
“How can they do that?”
“If they can make you believe that the nation is in peril, that either I or Payne constitute some threat to it, absolute nonsense, of course!, then you’d do everything in your power to raise the barons against me, to put someone else on the throne. Someone who has no real right to be there.”
“They’d be right. If I believed what they told me, if I thought it is true, it would be my duty. My allegiance is to Tamlaght, after all, not the throne.”
“They’re the same thing!”
“Calm yourself! What is it, exactly, you think I would’ve been told?”
“Well...I don’t know. Anything, perhaps...”
“Something like this?” Piers reaches beneath the desk and brings into view the fat packet of letters.
“Where does you get those?” Ferenc squeals, leapi
ng to his feet.
“Does it matter? You know what they are?”
“Of course...no, no, why should I? I take it that the, ah, traitors’ve already been in contact with you?”
“Who exactly are these traitors you are so afraid of?”
“Who? I, ah, don’t know. I mean, not exactly, that is. They’re a secret band. Yes! Payne told me all about them. A band of conspirators. General Praxx uncovered their plans. He’s searching for them right now. Why, I’ll probably get back to Blavek and discover they’ve all been arrested! Ah, may I see those?”
“Well, I don’t think that’d be necessary. You know what’s in them.”
“What do you mean? I just told you...”
“Yes, yes. But, you see, Ferenc, I believe what I’ve read here.”
“They’re all lies!”
“No, they’re not.”
“Is my sister here? Does she give you those? Is Bronwyn here?”
“It doesn’t matter how I got these. What matters is that I believe what they say.”
“I want you to give them to me!”
“No, Ferenc.”
“You refuse me? I order you, as your liege and heir apparent to the throne, to hand that packet over!”
“No, I will not! Because, if it is within my power, you will no longer be my prince, and Musrum forbid that you shall be my king!”
“What? You dare to defy me? You traitor! You, you blasphemer!”
“You’d best go on back to Blavek and tell your master that his days in this kingdom are finished.”
“My what? How dare you suggest!...I’ll have your head for this, Piers! I swear I will!”
He pulls a revolver from his tunic and for a moment, Piers is afraid he will be forced to shoot the young prince. Instead, Ferenc points the gun at the roof of the tent and fires it twice, its wicked cracks sounding like large bones snapping, two tibia, crack, crack, filling the space with acrid blue smoke.
“You don’t give me any other choice, Baron, but to take the letters from you!”
The prince backs from the tent as a half-dozen soldiers hurry in, guns and swords drawn, attracted by the sound of the gunfire.
“If you attack this camp,” shouts the baron after the retreating prince, “I’ll defend it!”
“You do that and you’ll be hunted from one side of this island to the other, as will be any man who dares raise a finger to help you!”
Then he is gone.
A soldier enters the baron’s tent as the prince disappears into the falling snow. He salutes and reports: “Baron, Sir, cavalry are coming over the ridge!”
The baron rushes to the doorway and looks to the southeast. A small force is approaching over the crest of a nearby hill: orderly ranks of mounted, black-uniformed men. They halt on the far side of a small stream separating the main camp from the surrounding tundra. Piers sees the prince join them. He runs to the parade ground and throws himself upon the back of his waiting horse. His men have broken rank and are milling about in some confusion, buzzing with consternation and speculation. Those who have not heard of the prince’s presence in the camp can now see for themselves his distinctive figure, as well as the royal standard that floats brightly against the grey landscape. The baron orders his troops back into position, anger making his voice harsh. His second-in-command, a stocky, swarthy man with a spade-shaped grey beard, a soldier who has been in the baron’s militia since the baron himself had been a boy, pulls up his horse alongside Piers.
“The men won’t fight the prince, Piers.”
“Yes they will, by Musrum!”
“The men of your personal troops, yes, I think they will, as will I. Their loyalty is to you, my lord, and they feel as you do about the prince and his cohorts. But they’re not great in number. It’s even possible that the remaining troops in the camp would side with the prince, treating us as the common enemy if we raise arms against him.”
“Well, that may never have to come to pass. We’ll have to see what the prince does.”
And as he speaks he discovers exactly what the prince’s intentions are. Aghast, disbelieving, he watches the vastly outnumbered force of Ferenc’s little army lower its lances and charge.
Bronwyn watched from the shelter of her tent as her brother fled from the camp and rejoined his forces on the far side of the stream. When she sees the charge, she runs to the tent that adjoins her own, snatches up a bandolier of cartridges she had seen hanging within, as well as the brace of heavy, large-caliber revolvers that had been lying on the cot. These she jams into her wide belt. By the time she has pulls her sword from its scabbard, the first of the Guards have enters the camp. There is at first nothing she can see but a mass of confused bodies. Then it becomes clear that the prince is trying to force his way, using the brute mass of his men as a wedge, to the baron’s tent where he knows the damning letters are kept. Meanwhile, the baron is doing all he can to block the prince’s progress, but there is little he can effectively do, reluctant as he is to order his men to use lethal force, and unsure that they would obey him if he did.
Back among the ranked tents as she is, and with the blustering flurries blurring the distant figures like a theatrical scrim, Bronwyn is unable to easily distinguish between the milling cavalries, which is why she is not able to tell who fired the first shot. Whichever side is responsible, the sound causes the two bodies to part momentarily. There is a figure on the ground, lying still. For a terrible second Bronwyn is afraid it is the baron, but then she recognizes the tall figure still astride his horse. He has his sword drawn and is using it to rally his men around him.
She is uncertain what to do. Hiding in her tent, as her cousin had ordered her, is repugnant, however wise it might be. On the other hand, to expose herself to her brother and the Guards promises terrible danger. Not just physical danger, a prospect she does not find particularly daunting, but the real possibility of capture. As a hostage, she can be used to force Piers to do almost anything. She knows his loyalty to her has few bounds. His love for his young cousin is deep; beyond that, she represents the Crown, in effect Tamlaght itself. His hopes for the future of the nation rest upon her and she realizes that all too vividly. There is no question in her mind but that he would surrender to Ferenc if it were necessary to save her. Keeping herself out of harm’s way would be the very best thing she can do to aid Piers. But she neither can she remain a spectator.
The hiatus in the parade ground activity is short-lived. The pistol shot acts as a kind of signal, a release, and the black-uniformed Guards attack in earnest. They burst through the encompassing regular troops and enter the camp proper, the small, white tents collapsing under the horse’s hooves. The small number of men loyal to the baron try to prevent the Guards from reaching the headquarters tent, but they are being forced back easily. Bronwyn can scarcely follow what is happening in all of the confusion. She hears her name called and looks for the caller. It is her brother, some yards away, obviously torn between coming for her and remaining with the men who are fighting to get into the large pavilion.
“It’s Bronwyn!” he shrieks. “It’s the princess! Get her! Get her!”
Fortunately for the princess, Ferenc has not addressed his order to anyone in particular, so there is a delay of several moments before it is settled who is to carry it out. Taking advantage of the confusion, Bronwyn ducks through the maze of tents, putting a half-dozen between her and the main body of Guards. As she does, she hears the first gunfire since the initial round had been fired. Now it came in ragged bursts, mingled with the rattle of clashing sabers. The fight is now in earnest, the baron apparently having decided fully where his loyalties lay. Bronwyn knew the sounds she hears irrevocably mark her cousin as a traitor to his country and that something has begun that can not be recalled.
She turns at the sound of a crash behind her and sees the tent she has just rounded collapse beneath the weight of a horse, its rider already swinging his saber back in preparation for a blow at her head. She dodges b
eneath a flailing hoof as the animal struggles to free itself from the entangling folds of canvas and cord. Coming up on the opposite side of the Guard, she slashes at him with her own sword, cutting diagonally down the side of one polished boot. She hears the man cry out in pain. Others answer and she sees additional pursuit coming on foot: two or three Guards who have abandoned their mounts. They have not drawn their weapons; she guesses they hope to capture her alive. She stands her ground, drawing one of her two revolvers, which seems to surprise all the men, not least the one she fires at. He is less than fifty yards away and the bullet strikes him in the hollow at the base of his throat. He clutches at his neck, blood fountaining from between his fingers as air from his lungs pumps through the wound. He pitches face first onto the frozen ground. The remaining men pick up their pace in reaction to her self-defense. They spread out to prevent her from flanking them. Once more they are out of sight for a few seconds as she threads the narrow spaces between tents. One of the Guards, who thought she was still a dozen yards away, is surprised to have the princess suddenly step out in front of him. He tries to stop, windmilling his arms against his momentum. The nearly point-blank explosion of the princess’ revolver in his face throws him into a backward cartwheel. Her shot draws the remaining soldiers and she runs off once more, dissolving into the misty snow.
There is a soft, thumping explosion from somewhere behind her. She instinctively turns to look, one of the big tents near the parade ground has erupted into a tremendous column of fire, and is suddenly thrown to the ground by a heavy body that slams into her chest. She feels her arms being twisted behind her back as a knee presses painfully into the base of her spine. Suddenly the weight is lifted from her just at the moment she thinks her arms are going to snap.
She hears Thud’s voice: “Hurry, Princess! You’ve got to run!”
Leaping to her feet she sees her friend, incongruous in his enormous fur coat, holding two Guards, one beneath each arm.
“Go on! Hurry, Princess!” he repeats, as he smashes the Guards’ heads together with such force that they actually merge. Beyond him more Guards are coming. She turns and runs.
