by Brian Bakos
Clyde jams his knife back into its scabbard.
“If I must go down in a hard fight, then so be it, but I will never serve Afflis again!”
Such boldness impresses me clear through. This formidable lad is far more than just a stable lackey. He has been places and done things I cannot even imagine. The last shreds of my ignorant prejudices against him are dropping away fast.
“You’ve had earlier dealings with this Afflis person, then?” I say.
“Aye, my lord. I tended horses for him and rode messenger to the other warlords. Seemed a better life than struggling on the land like my kin folk.”
Clyde pushes the sheathed knife back under his shirt.
“I couldn’t stand their cruelty, though,” he says. “Especially that pig Mulgar. So, one day I took him out. Then I ran for it. Nearly starved to death hiding in the hills. Nobody dared help me, and I feared to approach my kin folk lest Afflis’ wrath fall upon them.”
“So, you decided to hazard a crossing into Sopronia?” I say.
Clyde nods. “I did not expect to survive the trip. But if I did, I vowed to secure allies and return with them to free our lands from the bandit gangs.”
Clyde’s idea is huge and dangerous, it shocks me to my very soul.
“That cannot be,” I say, “our people do not seek war.”
Clyde stands up to survey the terrain, then drops back to my level.
“Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but the war will likely find them whether they seek it or not.”
I feel icy fingers creeping up my spine.
“What are you saying, lad?”
“I’ve often heard Afflis voice his desire to plunder the Western lands,” Clyde says. “I reckon him capable.”
“That’s ... impossible!” I splutter.
“Why? Superstition and fear is all what guards the border. We have both made passage, so can Afflis.”
I am too horrified to reply.
“If Afflis finds his way to Sopronia, it’s a safe wager other warlords will soon follow,” Clyde says. “They’ll carve up the country like a roast chicken.”
My body feels ice cold, as if every drop of my blood has drained away. I am grateful that I am not standing.
“Please forgive such plain talk, my lord,” Clyde says. “I do not know how to speak otherwise.”
All right Rupert, I tell myself, you’ve heard the evil tidings. Are you just going act like a boiled noodle?
I force myself to stand and shake some life into my numb arms and legs.
“I deem you to be honest,” I say. “My father, our great Sovereign, has taught me to never blame anyone for speaking truthfully.”
“The King must be informed, then,” Clyde says.
“Yes ... of course.”
But how can I do that?
The King simply won’t believe me if I voice such warnings. He’ll say it’s my ‘overactive imagination’ again. I can’t blame him for that; I can scarcely believe the day’s events myself.
Besides, Duke Wiltone and the other royal advisors will undermine any warning I try to give. They all still have mirrors in their brains, reflecting back their ignorance.
And drat the Grand Festival! It’s all that occupies Father’s mind. It will be doubly hard to get his attention now.
I determine to take whatever action is possible.
“We must have a border lookout,” I say.
“I can do that.”
“I’d rather you stay near me, Clyde. Have you a family member who could serve?”
“Perhaps ...” Clyde says.
He looks around warily for a few moments, then comes to a decision.
“Remain here, Your Lordship. I’ll be back soon.”
He leaves, crouching low and moving rapidly across the uneven ground.
10: Terror on the Slope
As I sprawl alone among the bushes, my fears begin to crush in upon me. The atmosphere becomes dark and ominous. The leaden sky shouts threats, and shadowy beings creep at the edge of sight. When I jerk my head around, nothing is there.
Have I been a fool to trust Clyde? Is he, this very minute, seeking out the bandit chief – offering him a valuable hostage in exchange for a safe return to the gang? The lad knows so much about us, he’d be of tremendous help to Afflis for the coming invasion.
Fortunately, I haven’t long to wrestle with my misgivings. Clyde returns in a quarter hour with another lad in tow. This new boy looks much like him, only younger. He wears similar clothing and has an awe-struck expression on his face.
I stand to meet them.
“This is my cousin, Eric, Your Lordship,” Clyde says.
“Greetings, Eric.” I grasp the lad’s hand, and his eyes grow even wider.
“My uncles took the flock to the lower slopes,” Clyde says. “It’s tax time. That must be why Afflis was hanging around.”
“Are you a for real prince?” Eric asks in his sing-song accent.
“Yes, Eric,” I reply. “Are you willing to be in my service?”
He turns questioningly towards Clyde.
“His Lordship means the lookout post,” Clyde says.
Eric turns back toward me and nods.
“Excellent,” I say. “Your loyalty will be well rewarded.”
I feel rather awkward. Never in my life have I taken anyone into my service. Such persons who attend me have all been selected by others. I’ve taken a step that can never be revoked. Clyde takes the lead.
“I suggest that we leave immediately, Your Lordship,” he says.
“Quite so,” I say. “Well done, both of you.”
Without further ceremony, we depart for home.
***
Every step increases my relief at our escape, and we make steady progress up the slope of Windy Gap. Thank heaven, the going is much easier than on the Sopronian side. We keep low, taking advantage of any natural cover to protect us from hostile eyes.
But near the top, the giant bird suddenly appears, bringing renewed anxiety with its foul presence. The creature must have been hiding behind a boulder, or maybe some poisonous cloud concealed it. Whatever the case, it is circling directly above us now.
“The Devil Bird!” Eric cries. “Come straight from hell!”
“Nothing of the sort,” I manage to say through my fear. “It’s merely a freak of the natural world.”
I try to sound confident, but that horrible creature would strike terror into anyone’s heart. It’s spiraling down, right on top of us now, like a harbinger of death. We crouch together. Clyde draws his knife and points it upward in feeble defense.
The brute continues its lazy progress – its massive, greenish-black body drawing ever closer. Its head is a bald, wrinkled horror dangling from a scrawny neck. A hooked beak gleams viciously.
The eyes are the worst part. They stab down at me with burning power, trying to bore into my mind. They shine with a fierce intelligence unlike that of any normal animal. Cold, polluted air beats down as the creature flaps its wings.
Clyde springs to his feet.
“Be gone!” he shouts.
He hurls a rock, then another. The monster scarcely notices, adjusting its course slightly to avoid the missiles. We scrabble for more stones, but the bird has had enough of us. With a ferocious screech it whirls off toward the north, its wings beating the air like a funeral drum.
11: Important Matters of State
By late afternoon we are back at the stream where we left Gypsy. Years seemed to have passed since I’ve last seen her. I am bone weary, but dare not lie down lest I don’t get up until morning.
I thrust my coin purse into Eric’s hands.
“Buy provision at any village market or farm,” I say. “Be a man of few words, Eric, let the money speak for you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We shall leave the horse,” I say. “Can you handle it properly?”
“Clyde taught me some riding,” Eric says. “I shall practice.
”
And so I depart with Clyde, having posted a young foreign lad as sole guardian of our frontier.
Our progress is slow. I am so banged up from my various tumbles that even the gentle motion of Gypsy’s gait pains me, so I cover much of the distance on foot.
Feelings of inadequacy walk at my side.
Clyde has been the champion of this day, I think sourly as I plod through the gathering darkness, and I have proved to be a total bungler. All that went wrong has been my fault, while everything successful has been Clyde’s doing. I feel about as capable as a fish tossed on the shore of Lake Hevesh.
Clyde speaks much about the bandit gangs during our trek – about their cruel and undisciplined ways. How they steal the best livestock during ‘tax time.’ How they constantly fight each other and hover between feast and famine. It is a horrifying picture.
***
The sun has long since departed when we pass through the open and unguarded East Gate. Dim street lamps light our way.
Windows glow warm and cheery with candle light, but my heart is a heavy stone. A chilling inner voice tells me that events have started which will have consequence beyond all imagining.
I leave Clyde at the stables with Gypsy and wander on alone through the cold and mysterious night. Without Clyde’s reassuring presence, I feel lost in the once familiar capital city. I draw my tattered cloak around myself.
Weariness numbs my brain as I enter the castle and shuffle toward my chambers. As I creep around a corner, I spy a towering figure coming my way. Shadow hides its face.
“Oh!” I can’t halt a cry of surprise.
The figure stops, tensed like a mountain cat ready to pounce. Its voice strikes me like frigid water.
“So, there you are!”
Duke Wiltone slithers into full view.
“Perhaps Your Lordship will explain where he has been half the night,” he says.
He stands squarely in my path, arms crossed on his chest. In the semi-darkness, he seems much larger than usual. Flickering taper light plays about the harsh angles of his face, and he wears his usual sour expression, as if he’s just bit into a lemon sandwich.
Why is this old hyena creeping around in the shadows anyway? His gaze pokes at me, hard and glittery. His reedy voice grates my nerves. He is speaking to me as if I am a mere commoner.
But after everything I’ve been through today, I am not going to be intimidated.
“You do not demand answers from me,” I say with all the authority I can muster.
Wiltone’s eyebrows lift in offended surprise. “Very well, young master, speak to His Majesty, then. He commands your presence immediately.”
He strides toward the council chambers. I come after him like a chastised serving boy, resentment squirming in my heart. The burning tapers throw fantastic shapes all around; a huge blob of shadow stalks the wall behind Wiltone like a goblin.
“Someday, when I’m king, you’re gonna get burned,” I mutter.
We enter the council chambers. Shadows lurk everywhere in the dreary room. The King’s advisers huddle around one end of a large table like a flock of vultures. The white stone table top glimmers dully. Through its center runs a band of deep red, as if someone has splashed blood over it.
Father, His Imperial Majesty King Bertram III, stands with both hands gripping the table edge. His usually kindly face is grim, his brow is creased with worry as he studies a document lying before him. He looms large and powerful among the lesser men, and his reddish beard bristles with regal authority.
I don’t look much like him. Mother, Queen Angelica, is slim and pale with light brown hair and extraordinary green eyes. I take after her, including the green eyes. I’d much prefer manly brown ones like Father’s.
All the counselors are deep in thought. Obviously, they’re considering some vital matter of state. Wiltone approaches the King and whispers in his ear.
Father looks toward me. “So, you are back at last, Rupert.”
“Yes, Father.”
I feel about as big as an ant. I wish the floor would open up so I can sink into it.
Father’s eyes scan my ruined clothes.
“You’ve been off on one of your adventures, eh?” he says.
“I went – ”
“I am not interested in where you went,” the King says. “I am only interested that you perform the duties expected of you!”
I have a terrible feeling that Father is speaking to me through some thick, wavering substance. His voice sounds distant and hollow.
He snatches the document from the table. Everyone’s eyes follow its progress.
“This is the festival banquet guest list,” the King says. “It appears there won’t be enough room for everybody in the Great Hall.”
The remark stuns me with its total unimportance. Father begins pacing.
“We must seat the noblemen, the army leaders, representatives of the merchants and craftsmen,” he says. “How can we arrange things so that nobody feels slighted?”
Wiltone nods gravely. The problem is obviously taxing even his powerful mind.
“Then there is the parade,” Father says. “The order of procession is not yet determined. Have you prepared your speech, Rupert?”
“No, Father.”
“Don’t you see the gravity of these matters?” The King says. “Can you not understand where your duty lies?”
The room wavers out of focus.
Father! My mind screams in agony. Bandit gangs are threatening to attack us. Forget the banquet!
But I do not voice these thoughts. Father will not comprehend if I do. He stands on the other side of the mirror from me now, in our Kingdom of Make Believe.
“I’m sorry Father,” I say.
The King raps the table top with an index finger, emphasizing each point.
“I am ordering you to remain in the castle until the Festival,” he says. “No more disappearances. You will be available immediately whenever you are needed.”
“Yes, Father.”
Then he grips my shoulder lightly with his massive hand and continues in a softer voice.
“Son, I only want to guide you to an understanding of your place in life. Sopronia will be yours to rule one day. You must be prepared.”
I bow and leave. The King returns to his guest list.
Will there still be a Sopronia for me to rule? I wonder.
Part Two: The World Unravels
12: The Grand Festival
I am extremely busy the next few days preparing for my public appearance, but thoughts of Sopronia’s peril never leave my mind for an instant – not as I work on my speech until I can almost recite it backwards, not even as I practice the most intricate steps with the dancing master so as to make a favorable impression at the festival ball.
Gaspar appears at my chambers looking all solemn, like he is at a funeral. With him is the royal tailor, a thin and wiry man who scurries over and begins sizing me up with his tape measure.
“Begging Your Lordship’s pardon,” he says. “But we must prepare your festival robe.”
He lashes me with his tape, working quickly, as if fearful that I might suddenly vanish. But of course I won’t disappear. Father has forbidden it, and defying an order from the King is unimaginable. People obey him for the simple reason that he expects it.
When my time comes to rule, if it comes, how can I possibly command such respect?
Father appears at my door. He seems amused by my discomfort, and the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. The tailor finishes his work and scurries off.
“Come, Gaspar,” Father says. “Let us inspect the banquet hall.”
The King departs, his robe sweeping after him, pulling Gaspar along behind like a pile of dry leaves. I am chilly in the sudden emptiness.
I only I could speak what’s on my mind!
At the end of each day I fall into bed exhausted, all set for a night of disturbing dreams.
In thes
e nightmares, I see the destruction of my country. I see myself wandering a ravaged land with the fields torn up and the villages burned – our capital city reduced to rubble, our subjects displaced by ravening bands of evil men. And above it all, the Devil Bird screeches in triumph.
I have pushed my way through the mirror; now whatever lurks on the other side will be coming here.
***
The morning of the Grand Festival finally arrives. Gaspar comes early to my chambers bearing the coronet of the crown prince and places it reverently on my head. The jewel-encrusted silver bears down with a great weight, only part of which is physical.
“Ah, Your Lordship,” he says, “you are every inch the future king!”
Then he buckles on the ceremonial sword worn by crown princes from time immemorial. Power radiates from it, warming my whole body.
I must admit that all this attention gets me pretty puffed up. Who wouldn’t be in my place?
With a flourish of my green velvet robe, I leave my chambers with Gaspar in tow. A pair servants march ahead announcing:
“Make way for His Royal Highness!”
Other servants line the corridors beneath huge, colorful banners. I acknowledge their bows with an upraised hand. Excited whispers follow me, mingling with the tromp of my boots on the stone floor.
I approach the big flag I helped mount on the wall a few days earlier. The bird on our royal crest looms above me, its wings outspread majestically. I stop cold in my tracks.
It’s the same bird I encountered on Windy Gap! A cold fist slams me in the chest.
No, it can’t be!
Ours is a noble creature, while this thing is a twisted horror. I blink and shake my head hard enough to nearly upset my coronet. Gaspar looks on with concern.
The awful vision passes. The bird emerges from its nightmare plumes and becomes a proud national symbol once again. Yet it still bears an undeniable resemblance to the monster I’d seen in the Eastlands.
“Highness,” Gaspar urges, “we must move on.”
Determined to keep my dignity, I push the incident from mind my mind and continue on to the reception hall. Father awaits there with numerous officials.
The Royal Sovereign overawes the lesser men like an eagle among a pigeon flock. I bow formally to the King and then move to his side. We march together from the hall, the others falling in behind us. A brief, unseemly struggle breaks out as the dignitaries compete for position.
Outside, we tread the red carpet from the castle gate to the gilded royal carriage. Flunkies rush to open the door for us. Father and I enter the carriage and sit across from each other.