The Prince Page 3

  “Then you admit to the boy’s existence.”

  “Fine, but that boy is dead!”

  At that moment, a short but very stout man stepped forward. Thick, wiry brown hair covered his face and arms. He had a scar running down his leathery cheek that became a white streak in his beard. Steel-plate armor covered his torso, and bracers of gold his wrists. A large, well-used war hammer hung at his waist. Behind him were three others of his approximate size and build, similarly armed and just as rough-hewn in appearance.

  The leader of these gritty little men approached, his grey eyes locked on Billy’s. He set his cup down on the edge of the table and held out a hand. Billy examined the man’s dirty hand. While he was close to Billy’s size, his hands were very different, for they were short fingered and gnarled. Billy was blessed with elegant hands.

  “Let me see your hands,” the man said in a gruff voice.

  Elzgig nodded to Billy, and he warily held them out. Without hesitation, the rough little man grabbed his right hand and held it up to his eye. He touched the ring and it tingled.

  “He bears the ring,” the squatty man hissed to his companions. At once, they all went to one knee and bowed their heads. “Your Majesty. I am Thortan. The dwarves of Tirn Aill are yours to command.”

  “Thortan!” Malkry rushed down from her vantage point. “What is this? What is this? This is some kind of conspiracy, isn’t it? You dirty little hole dwellers have joined against us. Is that it?”

  “No.” Thortan rose to place himself between Billy and the angry elf.

  Malkry’s companions fell in behind their leader, and Thortan’s dwarves behind him. The two sides stared across at each other. Malkry bared her teeth and hissed at the little men. Before she could reach for her weapon, Thortan’s hammer was an inch in front of her nose. She stepped back, surprised to have the weapon thrust in her face.

  “He wears the ring, elf!” Thortan waved his hammer at Malkry.

  “What ring?”

  “Don’t play thick with me, missy! The ring my forefathers wrought when the world was yet new. The ring my people gave to the first rulers of Faerie. The ring that Queen Eleanor and all the kings and queens of Tirn Aill before her wore on their coronation day!”

  “Oh, that ring.”

  Thortan glared at the dark elf. “Yes, that ring.” He then turned and faced the rest of those congregated at the court. “I, Thortan, do pledge my life and service to this boy, for he is our rightful king.” He turned to Billy and whispered, “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Billy.”

  “I pledge myself to the wearer of the ring, King Billy!”

  “King Billy!” the other dwarves shouted in unison.

  A small number within the crowd followed suit and hailed Billy as king. However, many more remained silent or mumbled amongst themselves.

  Malkry smirked. “You see, not everyone is so eager to believe this ... boy is who you say he is.”

  Elzgig turned to a beautiful winged faerie and asked. “Faenor, will you support the boy?”

  The faerie looked away from the gnome, as if too shy to speak her mind.

  “Onian!” Thortan shouted.

  An elf standing near the edge of the mob with others of his kind, all dressed in leafy-green clothes, looked up from his companions. “What do you want, Thortan?”

  “Will you not support him?” the leader of the dwarves asked. “Surely you will not deny the wearer of the ring.”

  The elf stared across at the dwarf with clear green eyes. “We need more proof.”

  “Proof? He wears the ring!”

  Malkry crossed her arms and cocked one eyebrow at Thortan. “I think you’ll find that most here do not put as much stock in that ring as you dwarves.”

  “Because you do not understand its power as we do.”

  The arguments went on for hours with nothing decided.

  At last, Onian the elf stepped forward. “And what of the other citizens of Tirn Aill? Many of our fellow faerie are not present tonight. Are we to decide on this matter without them?”

  “There is nothing to decide!” Malkry threw her arms up.

  “I agree with Malkry,” Elzgig said.

  All eyes settled on him, and a hush fell over the assemblage. Malkry scanned the little wizard suspiciously.

  “I agree. There is nothing to decide. Either Billy is our king, or he isn’t.”

  Instantly, the mob resumed shouting and arguing. They jeered and hurled insults at each other. Many glared at Elzgig and called him an old fool.

  Once again, Elzgig struck his willow twig on the table and lightning shot into the sky. While the thunder rolled in the distant hills, Elzgig crossed down the middle of the great table to its center.

  “My friends, allow me to make myself clear. We are all agreed that Queen Eleanor was our rightful ruler, are we not? And that her offspring would, in turn, become our rulers, would they not? Then, I put it to you plainly: either Billy is Eleanor’s son and our rightful king, or he is neither.”

  Elzgig’s words seemed quite logical to Billy, all the dwarves, and even to Malkry, but to many others, his words were like wind to a stone. After an uncomfortable silence, the discussion restarted. The discussion became a debate, which digressed into an argument, and several times resulted in blows before the two parties could be separated. And then it would start all over again.

  This up and down process continued throughout the night and into the next day, and again into the night. For three days, this went on, with neither side of the argument making progress and many faeries changing sides repeatedly. At times, it was as though some were arguing out of some perverse pleasure it brought them; to be contrary or simply to hear themselves talk.

  Billy, like many others, had grown bored with the entire mess on the second day, and only stayed because he had to. A break in the tedium came when several satyrs showed up.

  Billy marveled at the unusual creatures as they appeared one by one from the brush. He couldn’t help but stare as they approached on their two cloven hooves.

  “Good day, Your Highness.” The lead satyr gave a slight bow.

  “He’s not our prince yet.”

  The satyr regarded Malkry and then smiled; a rather toothy horse-like grin. “Whatever,” he said with a flip of his wrist. “My name is Sylvys, and these are my brothers, Fylvys and Elvys.”

  The other satyrs bowed as Sylvys named them.

  “Welcome to Tirn Aill, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, welcome home, Your Highness.”

  “What have satyrs to gain by siding with dwarves?”

  “Gain?” Sylvys stared at the dark elf. “Why, nothing. And we do not side with anyone but ourselves, and our new Prince here.” He indicated Billy with his hand.

  Gulch, the goblin leader, leaned out from behind Malkry. “Why have you come, Sylvys?”

  “And why now?” Malkry added.

  “To stir up more of your wild trouble?”

  Elvys crossed his arms. “We heard that Queen Eleanor’s heir had returned home yesterday.”

  Malkry wagged her finger at him. “He hasn’t proved that he’s the heir!”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Fylvys said. “But we heard he was here, and here we are, and there he is ...”

  “But he hasn’t proven—”

  Sylvys cut Malkry off. “We’re not here to argue with you, elf.” Then the satyr turned his attention back to Billy. “Your Highness, we are here to deliver a very important message.”

  “Please, proceed.”

  Gulch groaned. “Yes. Get it over with, so we can get on with our important business.”

  The rather impressive satyr stared at the toady little goblin. Gulch swallowed hard and darted behind Malkry’s warriors.

  Sylvys cleared his throat. “Your Highness, these are probably the most important words I’ll ever say—” He stopped abruptly, his attention and that of his brothers drawn to something in the distance. They stood high on the tips of their hooves, ex
tending their torsos and stretching their necks, like curious, startled deer.

  Billy turned to look over his shoulder. At the far end of the clearing, a dozen nude, young women appeared from the bushes. They danced and sang their way into view, unaware of their audience. Then all at once, they giggled and whispered and pointed towards the other inhabitants of Faerie.

  “Nymphs, Sire,” Elzgig whispered in Billy’s ear.

  Billy was aware of nothing but the frolicking girls until he felt the point of Elzgig’s staff pushing his slackened jaw closed.

  “Uh-m ... yes. Where were we?”

  At that moment, the three satyr brothers sprinted past Billy toward the nymphs. Their prey squealed with delight and scattered like a flock of frightened birds. They ran, giggling, back into the woods.

  Billy blinked as if wakened from a daydream. He watched in dismay as the satyrs disappeared behind the nymphs.

  “What about your message?” Billy shouted to the vacant meadow. “Who was that?”

  The wizard smiled. “That, Your Majesty, was Sylvys, the leader of the satyrs. That is, he’s sort of a leader.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Satyrs are seldom lead by anything except their prolific urges.”

  Billy looked back to where the unusual creatures had vanished into the trees and nodded. “What do you suppose their message was?”

  “Oh, could have been anything.” Elzgig shrugged. “But we’ll probably never know. The important thing is they’re behind you.”

  On the evening of the third day of arguments, after the meal had been served, and after Gulch, the fat, self-important leader of the goblins had droned on for an hour about goblin traditions and goblin rights, Billy rose to his feet. His boredom had transformed to frustration, and now to smoldering anger.

  “Shut up!”

  All eyes were on him. The only sound came from the babble of the nearby river.

  “I’ve been sitting here for three days, and not a one of you has said anything new in two! You’ve been arguing the point endlessly, and in truth, I think you’d argue for eternity and never get anywhere.

  “Elzgig is right, either I am Queen Eleanor’s son and heir, or I am not. It’s that simple. Now, surely there is some way you can tell whether I am who I say I am. Test me. Examine me. Use a spell. I really don’t care how you do it, but do it without any more of this meaningless blabbering!”

  When Billy had finished, many looked down and kicked the ground or otherwise avoided his eyes like scolded children. One by one, the faeries suggested ways to “test” Billy.

  Elzgig winked at Billy and whispered, “That’s it, Your Majesty. They just needed you to lead them to it.”

  After a round of somewhat more civilized arguments, all save Malkry agreed that Billy should undergo a thorough examination by the wizards of Tirn Aill. Their findings would determine what claim, if any, he might have to the throne.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Gallant Fall

  Hugh drove himself onward. He had left Castle Orgulous consumed with one thought: save Myrredith. She was the only woman he had ever loved. For all he knew, it might be too late. Still, he drove himself on, only stopping long enough to change horses, and then he was off again. Luke, the royal page, told him that the army of Gwythia had already defeated Earl Cairmac in Wyneddhamshire and was headed straight for Myrredith in Dyven.

  Many years before, when Gwythia tried to invade, Hugh had stopped them. That day, few stood against many and drove them back into the sea. Hugh’s heroism had saved the nation, but it had cost him Myrredith’s hand. Now the Gwythies were about to take her away again. In the pit of Hugh’s stomach was the agonizing fear that he couldn’t defeat them again. Though he found praying helpful, there was more comfort in speaking to the dead.

  Hugh looked toward heaven and sighed. “Billy … I fear that my sin against you will weigh heavy against me in the battle to come. I wish there were some way I could undo what I’ve done. I’ll need what strength the Lord will grant me to defeat them this time. But more, I wish you were here by my side.”

  Hugh doubted Myrredith would want to see him again, but she was in danger, and all that mattered was saving her. He rode on—his heart a tangle of guilt, fear, and love.

  How many days have I been gone? Seven? Ten? I don’t know anymore. Only a few days ago, I was Sir Hugh, the King’s Champion and First Knight of Lyonesse, but now, Hugh. Simply Hugh. I haven’t been that since ... before Father died.

  Hugh pondered the darker days of his youth. His father, Sir Sedgmore, had disappeared along with the king’s infant son. In his absence—unable to defend himself, he was declared a traitor. Hugh and his mother, Lady Galawyn became hostages against Sedgmore’s return; but he was never seen again. From that point on, it was a daily struggle to be something other than “Hugh, the traitor’s son.”

  More than a year later, on Christmas Eve, Lady Galawyn persuaded Sir Rudthar to take Hugh as his squire. Hugh did well at Cyndyn Hall. He even fell in love with Myrredith and found happiness for a while, but before the next Yule, his mother was dead.

  With no other prospects, Hugh dedicated himself to his training under Rudthar, and strove to be the best squire in Cyndyn. Having accomplished that and earning his spurs for valor, he was forced to leave Rudthar’s service. He wandered the land, serving the kingdom wherever he was needed. In this way, he hoped to prove his father’s innocence.

  In time, Hugh’s devotion made him the King’s Champion. Even so, there was a constant, unspoken pressure for perfection. Nothing else would be tolerated—not by Hugh, and not by the long memory of the court. Worst of all, his calling had separated him from Myrredith.

  Now I’m free to do as I will, when I will.

  In the few moments he took to reflect on this, Hugh discovered that his newfound freedom was both blessing and curse.

  My former duties always gave me purpose and direction. Now I am beholden to no man. But this autonomy could be dangerous. I will only answer to God and myself. After all, a man without direction could surely lose his way, and his soul shortly thereafter. I must be careful!

  He made a quick oath to be true in all things, and never again to allow another to detour him from the path of righteousness.

  At that moment, several smoke plumes in the distance drew Hugh’s attention. He hoped he was wrong about their origin. Without hesitation, he spurred his mount forward in the direction of the smoke—in the direction of Dyven.

  Hugh had crossed vast stretches of the kingdom in only a few days. He was bone tired, sore, and hungry. Dyven lay no more than three miles hence, but to Hugh, it seemed like thirty. Myrredith’s face was the only thing that kept him from collapsing.

  By traveling through the wilderness, Hugh had hoped to escape the eyes of any Gwythian spies, but when he came to the King’s Road, his mind thought only of reaching Myrredith. He spoke his mind to the world, “Spies be damned!” Then he urged his horse up the road.

  Movement caught his attention as three men on horseback darted from the woods and onto the road. Hugh reined his mount to a halt. He stared down the road at the men. Soldiers—wearing the colors of Gwythia.

  “Damn! I should have known.”

  His mind raced to a full gallop. Should I try to lose them in the woods, or take on all three here on the road? His hand moved to his side. The sword that usually hung from his hip was painfully absent. Hugh’s strategy was decided for him. He had no sword, nor any other weapons. He wore only tattered clothes and no armor. All had been lost to the sea.

  He charged into the forest. A moment later, a crossbow-bolt shot by his ear and horses crashed through the bushes behind him. The brush was thick with many low-hanging tree limbs; something he hoped would give him cover until he could lose his pursuers. A glance over his shoulder showed that only two Gwythies had followed him into the woods.

  Ssswat!

  Hugh’s horse let out a whinny and missed a step. Hugh knew, without looking, that a bolt had
struck her in the hindquarter. The tired mount would be hard pressed to out-run a pair of fresh horses, but now, wounded, there wasn’t a chance.

  He had to think fast. He chanced another look back and saw the closest man rapidly gaining on him, his sword held high to strike.

  Ahead, a narrow path led through some thistles. A large elm stretched out a branch just above the trail beyond. Hugh turned his horse up the path, forcing his pursuer to fall in behind him.

  Without further thought, Hugh grabbed the overhanging branch. His momentum pulled him from the saddle and swung him up over the bough. The first soldier gaped in stupefied amazement as Hugh revolved around the limb and dropped onto the back of his horse. Before the Gwythie could recover his wits, Hugh smacked him with his own sword, then gave a slight shove and his stunned opponent dropped into the thistles.

  Hugh spun his new mount around and charged the second soldier. This man, who was still coming at a gallop, was so befuddled by Hugh’s sudden turn that he spontaneously shot his crossbow into the sky. Before he could draw another weapon, Hugh raked him from his horse with an outstretched arm.

  Hugh took out the third scout when he came looking for his comrades. As the youth leaned over their bodies, Hugh jumped out and spooked his horse. A tree branch did the rest.

  The three Gwythies had nothing to say when Hugh relieved them of their weapons. They wore no armor, and so a crossbow, a heavy broadsword, and a shield were all that interested him. Had he more time, Hugh would have tied them up and questioned them.

  “My thanks for the loan of your weapons, gentlemen,” Hugh told the unconscious soldiers. “Have a nice day.”

  A moment later, he was back on his way to Dyven. He bounded through the forest with his fresh horses, deciding it was better to stay off the King’s Road to avoid any other patrols. By evening, he came to a small, shady creek that wound through the hills. The last time he had traveled down it, he was Squire Hugh, hunting boar with the late Lord of Cyndyn.

  “God rest his soul,” he muttered.

  Hugh’s mind flashed to Myrredith. He picked up his pace. His mind again filled with worries about her safety. In a few minutes, he would see Dyven. From there, he would know what his chances were.