The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  “There should be a law against gossip,” Rashford replied. “That’ll be from Frank and Fitz, I’m guessing.”

  “I can’t believe Boris is dead.” Sam shook his head. “I thought he was invincible. I saw him once. He was on the biggest, blackest stallion you’ve ever seen. I couldn’t hardly look at him for the shine on his armor. The Pitorians have to pay for killing him.”

  “Aloysius will make them pay. Don’t you worry about that, Sam,” Rashford replied.

  “So it’s true? Boris is dead?” March asked.

  “I believe that the honorable Prince Boris was killed in battle,” Rashford said. “However, I don’t believe it was the pathetic Pitorian army that killed him. I have it on good authority that he was killed by a spear thrown by his own sister, Princess Catherine. And if that’s so, then I’m betting she took some purple smoke to do it.”

  “I’ve met Catherine. She’s petite and delicate. She’d need the smoke for sure, and I know she uses it,” March replied.

  Rashford laughed. “Well, of course you’re pals with her, March. Hang around in the same smoke den, did you?”

  “Not actually, no.”

  Rashford turned to Sam. “Do you believe March’s stories, Sam?”

  Sam stared back, almost in surprise. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Your innocence does you credit. Me, I’m not so innocent. And March sure ain’t. He’s poured wine for Prince Thelonius, slept with a dead demon, and now he’s taken smoke with Princess Catherine.”

  “Actually, she watched while I was healed by the smoke. Prince Tzsayn was with her,” March interjected.

  Sam gawped in delight.

  “Oh, of course. I took that for granted.” Rashford smiled. “Who hasn’t hung out with Prince Tzsayn? Me and him go way back. But tell me, March, have you met Prince Harold of Brigant?”

  “Not yet.”

  Sam asked, “How old is Prince Harold? I thought he was just a little boy.”

  Rashford laughed. “Like us all, he just keeps getting older.”

  March tried to remember what he knew. “He’s three years younger than Princess Catherine, so that means he’s fourteen.”

  “Younger than most of us Bulls,” Rashford said.

  “I wonder if he likes a bit of purple smoke,” March said.

  Sam looked shocked. “Not a prince!”

  “Why not? Who wouldn’t want all that strength and power, Sam?”

  “But he’s a prince. He doesn’t need it.”

  March laughed. “Maybe he needs it more.”

  Rashford agreed. “You might be right there, March. He’s head of the boys’ brigades now. He wouldn’t want us to show him up.”

  It was midmorning when they saw smoke rising from a camp in the trees ahead. This wasn’t like the Bulls’ camp. It was bigger and noisier and a whole lot fancier. There were lots of grown men and horses, and also a few carts and some mules. One huge cart, which two blacksmiths were working on, had some kind of metal bars and chains on it. In the center of the camp were two large marquees with black, red, and gold pennants—the colors of royalty.

  They made their way to an open area near the tents, where some other boys were already gathering. All were wearing the jerkins of the boys’ brigades. Rashford greeted some of the other boys as they stood and waited. Sam muttered, “I can see Bears, Foxes, Lions, Hawks, and even a few Wasps.”

  Rashford nodded and added thoughtfully, “No Eagles or Stags, though.”

  There were three, four, or more representatives from each brigade: their leaders and their new recruits. It was easy to tell them apart. The recruits were the ones who looked nervous.

  Sam gasped and dug his elbow sharply into March’s ribs. “It’s him. It’s actually him! Prince Harold.”

  It was, without doubt, the prince. He was wearing a fine golden crown that was woven with his hair to hold it in place. His immaculate clothes were black and gold—leather boots and trousers and a silk shirt, with a leather jerkin similar to that worn by all the boys, except that the prince’s had a black sheen, and over his heart he had a different badge—a golden sun.

  Sam was muttering, “This is the best day of my life. Look at him. Look at him. He’s like a god!”

  And it had to be said that Harold did look impressive. He stood with his legs apart in a patch of sun that pierced through the trees. He held a long sword, which caught the light—its blade sparkling silver and the hilt a bright gold. The sword was massive and must have weighed almost as much as Harold, who looked small and delicate—very much like his sister, though Harold’s hair was more red-blond. But he was still very much a fourteen-year-old boy, and he was most definitely using demon smoke to give him strength to lift the weapon.

  Behind him were two aides, grown men, immaculately dressed. One of them stepped forward and welcomed everyone, and asked the leaders of each brigade to come forward with their new recruits. The Bulls were the first to be summoned, which was an honor—it seemed that Rashford’s brigade was highly thought of.

  “What do we do?” Sam muttered.

  Rashford replied under his breath, “Bow. Look strong. Don’t stare and, whatever you do, don’t wet yourself, Sam.”

  March followed Rashford and Sam. He kept his head bowed as the prince spoke to Rashford. “So, Bull leader, how goes the training with your boys?”

  “Excellent, Your Highness. They are fit, healthy, and tough. They’re learning sword and spear.”

  “I hope to see them for myself soon. But today is for the recruits. How many boys have you brought?”

  “Two new recruits to replace two who manned up last month.”

  “Two to replace two—you’re confident they’re good enough?”

  “The other brigades always bring more boys than there are places, but I select the boys to bring first. I won’t waste your time on any others.”

  “You. Lift your head.” Harold pointed at March, who did as he was told. The prince stepped closer and stared into March’s eyes. “So much silver in those eyes. I’ve seen a few like them before. But how come they’re not at work in our mines in the north?”

  “I have lived most of my life in Calidor, Your Highness. As servant to Prince Thelonius.”

  “And you dare to come to Brigant after living with our enemy?” He glanced at Rashford. “Have you brought a spy into my camp, brigade leader?”

  Rashford looked alarmed. “No, Your Highness.”

  “I’m no spy, Your Highness. I hate Calidor.” And that was the absolute truth.

  “And yet you brag about coming from that place! The home of our enemies!” The prince grabbed March’s hair and wrenched his head to the side and down. It was all March could do to not cry out. March looked up into Harold’s face and saw no anger or irritation, merely a curiosity.

  Harold held March’s hair tight and leaned close to whisper, “Do you think I’m a fool? You’re clearly a spy. Or worse: you’re an assassin.”

  March had to think of something to convince Harold. “If I have spied for anyone, it was for your father, Your Highness. I had been providing information to another Abask man called Holywell. Holywell worked for your father.”

  This was all true as well.

  At the mention of this name, Harold’s face lit up and he released March’s hair. “Holywell! Ha ha. I know him. I remember seeing him thrashed years ago. He was a fighter. A true Abask. A true hard man.”

  “He was a friend to me but, alas, he’s dead now.”

  “How so?”

  “I was with him on the Northern Plateau. We had got something for your father and were fleeing to Brigant.” The “something” they’d got had been Edyon, but March would not reveal this to Harold. “We were attacked by Pitorians and a demon,” March went on. “The Pitorians got Holywell. The demons got the Pitorians. I escaped.”

  Haro
ld was grinning now. “What a tale! Your stories are as wild as Holywell’s. I was never sure how much of Holywell’s talk to believe, nor am I sure about yours yet, but I see something of him in you. Do you fight as well as him?”

  March shook his head. “Alas, no, Your Highness. Holywell was an expert with knives, and I witnessed him using them on a Pitorian, a sheriff’s man, whose death was bloody but very quick.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I saw him use his knives. You did know him!” Harold nodded in approval. “What’s your name?”

  “March, Your Highness.”

  “I’ll be watching you, March. I expect great things of all my boys and especially of you.”

  The Bulls were ushered away and the next brigade was brought forward.

  Sam was in awe of March having had a conversation with Harold. “I wouldn’t have been able to say anything if he’d spoken to me. But you were chatting with him as casually as you’d talk to the baker!”

  “The baker doesn’t pull me by the hair. Or have the power to have me executed.”

  “Shits, I thought we were in trouble then,” Rashford said. “But you recovered it well, March. I think he likes you. Just make sure he keeps on liking you, that’s all.” Rashford looked around as the other boys were being presented to Harold. “Right, listen up, you two. The test will start soon. The best recruits are selected, the rest rejected. You’d better not let the Bulls down.”

  They didn’t have to wait long to find out what the challenge was. As soon as all the boys had been presented to Harold, one of the prince’s aides called out, “And now for the test of the new recruits. Your commander, Prince Harold, has taken the opportunity to improve the challenge and has personally designed this test to make it more realistic.”

  And a man was dragged from behind a marquee. He was covered in cuts and bruises, wearing no shirt or boots, just tattered trousers. The man looked half-dead already and could hardly stand. He had dried blood on his chin and neck.

  “He’s had his tongue cut out,” someone behind March muttered.

  So this is the prince’s idea of realism, March thought.

  “This man is a thief and a traitor,” the prince’s aide continued. “He is to be executed. He has no value except as part of your test. The challenge for you recruits is simple. You must race to retrieve the prince’s sword, which will be by this traitor. First to reach the sword and return it to the prince wins. All recruits will be assessed for speed, agility, and fighting spirit. There are weapons to be found along the route that you can use if you wish.” And with that, the man was dragged away.

  Rashford stared after the prisoner and swore under his breath, before turning to Sam and March. “Right. Forget about the prisoner—think about each other. Whatever happens, work as a team, look out for each other, and keep your wits about you. Don’t be distracted by getting the weapons. Let the others waste time on that. Use your stones well, March. Remember you heal with the smoke and so will the others. So don’t hold back, ’cause no one else will.”

  All the recruits were now given their smoke rations, swapping their empty bottles for full ones. March watched the other boys inhale their smoke, some taking huge amounts.

  “Don’t take so much,” Rashford advised. “You need to have some sense still. Inhale once. Remember to keep focused. I’ll follow, but I can’t interfere.”

  The recruits were separated from the leaders. Sam stretched and limbered up. March was nervous but the smoke was filling him with strength, and confidence too. Some of the boys began joking and shoving each other. They were keen to get going—all had too much energy to be waiting around.

  The prince and his aides rode past on horseback and the prince shouted, “Good luck, boys. Show me what you can do.”

  Another aide on horseback now took over. “Right, boys. The prince’s sword has been stolen. You have to get it back. Follow the trail out of the woods and up the hill to the thief. Recover the sword. Show us what you’re made of. Are you all ready?”

  The boys shouted their replies.

  “I said, Are you ready?”

  The boys were shouting even louder now.

  “I said: ARE. YOU. READY?”

  The reply was long and loud, with swearing and whoops thrown in. March found himself joining in, bellowing as loud as he could.

  “Then you must GO.” And the man kicked his horse and set off.

  With hoots and shouts, the boys started running, quickly passing the man on the galloping horse. March and Sam were in the middle of the pack of thirty boys. The great thing about the smoke was that running was easy, and with the boys around it felt good; it felt like a bit of fun. But March had to remind himself, This isn’t fun. A man’s had his tongue cut out. This is real.

  Some of the boys peeled off. One boy leaped up to retrieve a spear that was lodged high in the branches of a tree. Another boy had already picked up a shield. But March couldn’t see the point of the weapons. He wasn’t going to use a spear on another boy; he’d punch and kick and use his stones if he needed to. And he did need to. The boys were getting more aggressive, tripping one another, pushing and shoving. A brawl had started to one side. The smoke was making them more violent as well as competitive.

  A shout to March’s right alerted him just in time to leap over a pit. Another two boys were not so quick and fell in. And then the group was out of the woods and in a meadow, which rose before them to a rounded peak far ahead. On the peak was a platform with the wood and metal contraption that the blacksmiths had been working on. The prisoner was standing on the platform with his arms out. The sword was stuck into a wooden beam close to his head.

  But getting to the sword wasn’t going to be easy—a boy near March screamed and fell, an arrow in his leg. The boy ripped the arrow out, shouting a curse. The archer now fled, but he didn’t stand a chance—some other boys chased him and brought him down.

  Those boys had got distracted from the main task, but March and Sam stuck to it. They were at the front of the group now. March slowed a little to scan around for more bowmen, but that was a mistake. Pain shot through his back—not from an arrow but a punch. “Too slow, White Eyes.” A tall boy with the badge of a Fox ran past him and grabbed Sam, who had turned to check what was happening. The Fox lifted Sam by his jerkin and swung him round, tossing him through the air. Sam rolled nimbly to his feet, dodged an arrow, and gave chase, but they had lost precious moments. The Fox was nearly at the platform. March shouted to Sam to keep going while reaching into his pocket, pulling out his stones, and sending three in rapid succession at the Fox’s head. The boy screamed and slowed as blood poured down his neck. Sam ran past him, punching him in the face. They were nearly at the platform, but more arrows rained down, and March and Sam had to run back to avoid them. The boys behind were approaching; one sent a spear whistling past Sam’s head. March defended Sam with his stones, cursing as he threw. But Sam was there. He climbed on the platform and shouted, “I’ve got it! I’ve got the sword.”

  And Sam stood on the platform above them all, hand on the hilt of the sword.

  March was below him, ready to defend the position with his stones, but the other boys slowed to a halt as the prince and his soldiers rode up.

  It was over. Sam had won. And March had hopefully done well enough that he could stay in the army.

  Prince Harold called out, “Well done to the Bulls: the first to reach the platform. But to win, you must return the sword to me.”

  March smiled and looked up at Sam. But then he realized the test wasn’t just a matter of getting the sword.

  It was stuck into a wooden beam and was holding a rope in place. The prisoner whose tongue was cut out was tied to a wooden cross—no, not tied: his hands were nailed in place. And above the prisoner was a metal contraption with a huge blade attached to it. It was clear that when the sword was removed, the rope would be let loose, the blade woul
d swing round, and . . . and March wasn’t sure, but it looked like it might cut the man in two, across his stomach.

  The prisoner’s face was full of hate, his eyes staring at Harold.

  “Come on, Bull. I want my sword back,” Harold said.

  Sam looked to the prince. His mouth worked, though no words came out. It seemed that he said, “Yes, Your Highness.” And, with shaking hands, Sam pulled the sword free.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Sam gave a brief smile of relief and held the sword up. But, as he took a step to the prince, the contraption whooshed down, almost taking Sam’s arm before it slammed into the prisoner’s stomach, cutting across his body. The man was sliced in two. His eyes still stared ahead.

  Sam stood in shock, staring ahead too.

  The prince rode forward and took the sword.

  Sam jumped down to March, not looking round once to the body behind him. “I had to do it. I had to.”

  “Yes, I know, Sam. The prisoner was dead anyway. The prince did it, not you.”

  March put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shook it off. “Don’t touch me. I’m not a baby. I can handle it. The man was a traitor.”

  And all the boys except for Sam stared at the prisoner’s body as his lower half slithered slowly to the ground and the upper half was left nailed to the cross.

  “Now that’s what I call a good spectacle,” Harold said with a smile. “Lift up the blade.”

  The prince’s aide ran up to the contraption and pulled the rope but couldn’t move it. He pointed at March. “Help me here, Abask.”

  March climbed onto the platform and pulled the rope, and, with the strength the smoke gave him, he raised the blade. It swung back into its upright position, splattering everyone with spots of blood. And then the innards of the man ran out, blood running in rivulets across the platform, an awful smell following. March didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to think. He focused on the rope and tied it securely before jumping down to the ground, getting away from it all as quickly as he could.