The Lost Country

by Brian Bakos

  “You’ll listen to the Prince!” he threatens. “I’ll kill the first one who tries to stop him.”

  A hush comes over the room; the thief backs off. I thrust myself into the silence.

  “Do you want to go on like this?” I say. “Crawling along, doing the dirty work while your boss stuffs the profits into his fat belly.”

  I jab a finger at one man.

  “What have you got? Nothing!”

  I point to another man.

  “Who are you? Nobody!”

  I address the whole group.

  “There is a better way – a new life for those brave enough to reach out and grasp it.”

  “Here! Here!” someone cries.

  I have struck a nerve! Heated argument erupts; a scuffle breaks out in the back of the room. Clyde jumps up on the table beside me. I scarcely notice him. My blood is up, maybe for the last time in my life.

  “Be a real hero,” I shout over the mayhem. “A soldier for the lawful King – honored, respected, AND WELL PAID!”

  The scuffling ceases. I lower my voice and project every ounce of power I can muster.

  “Come forward,” I say. “Join me.”

  Talbot has posted himself at the door, meaning to block entry. But with a mighty heave, Durwick and Franz shove their way in. I see the glint of steel as Durwick prepares to hurl a knife at me.

  What a glorious moment to die!

  “Look out!” Clyde yells.

  He thrusts me aside, shielding me with his own body. Talbot strikes Durwick’s throwing arm. The knife flies wild and hits the wall behind me, nearly taking the rest of my ear with it.

  Franz grabs Talbot from behind in a murderous choke hold. Talbot struggles desperately, but cannot free himself.

  My rebellion seems about to die with him. But from out of the crowd, a bandit rushes forward and strikes Franz with his fist. The blow echoes like a thunderclap, and Franz crumples to the floor. Talbot crawls away gasping.

  “Take that, Sir!” the bandit sneers.

  Everyone remains frozen. Durwick stands alone in the doorway, his double chins trembling.

  “Who is on my side?” I shout. “Prove yourselves NOW!”

  The whole room explodes. Every man seems to be fighting every other. Clyde and I jump down, upend the table and wrench off legs to use for weapons.

  A bandit grabs my tunic. I club his arm away. Clyde bashes another man’s skull. We stand back to back, slashing away, but foes press us from all sides, overwhelming our defense. Clyde goes down, I stumble over him and fall sprawling.

  Faces twisted with hate loom over me. Rough hands pull me across the floor. But then allies force their way to my side and form a solid rank against the enemy. I struggle back up.

  “Clyde! Where are you?”

  I feel a hand on my arm, whirl around. Clyde stands by me, an ugly bruise mars his face, but he is otherwise unharmed.

  Durwick remains in the doorway, stunned by the swirling events. Rebels charge him. He tries to flee, but from his position on the floor, Talbot grabs his legs and holds on. The fat outlaw shouts for help – too late. The rebels smash him into a bloody pudding.

  Durwick’s fall disheartens the enemy, despite their superior numbers. Rebels attack them with redoubled fury. Suddenly, our foes break and scatter outside.

  “To the weapons!” orders the man who had struck Franz.

  He dashes through the door, followed by the other rebels. They drag out the disgusting corpse of Durwick with them, leaving a bloody smear on the floor. They also take some injured enemy bandits outside to their fate.

  Judging by the screams, it is quick and brutal.

  29: Rite of Passage

  I stand alone, scarcely able to believe what has happened. Clyde leans against a wall, nursing his bruised face. Talbot drags himself off the floor and retrieves his dagger.

  “Is Your Lordship all right?” he says, hoarse from his choking.

  “Much better than expected,” I say. “And how of yourself?”

  He massages his much abused throat.

  “I seem to be back among the living,” he says.

  Clyde pulls himself off the wall and advances toward Talbot. He thrusts out his right hand.

  “I was wrong about you,” he says. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” Talbot grasps Clyde’s hand. “And can you forgive me for the misery I caused in former times?”

  Clyde nods. “That I do ... friend.”

  For a moment, all seems right with the world, but harsh reality soon returns. I am in a strange land with only two solid allies. Outside this enclosure, ‘our’ bandits are arming themselves. Will they remain loyal, or will they turn on us the moment they realize their own power?

  The Eastlands swarm with enemies. Every bandit gang will soon be astir, and Afflis will be on the march, seeking to run me to ground.

  “I regret that our escape plan has failed,” Talbot says.

  “I too have regrets,” I say. “But as you stated before, things were going too easily.”

  Talbot nods and offers an apologetic little smile. A surge of affection for him suddenly rises in my heart. I feel myself to be in the presence of a wise and good elder brother.

  “What now, my lord?” Clyde asks.

  I look about the ruined building and throw up my hands.

  “We must go forward on the only course open to us,” I say.

  “Which is?”

  “We cannot flee,” I say, “and we cannot survive here while the Eastlands are controlled by enemies ...”

  Talbot finishes my thought for me: “Therefore, we must fight.”

  Clyde drops to his knees and kisses my hand.

  “Thank heaven I have lived to see this day!”

  Talbot looks at me over Clyde’s head. Sadness is in his eyes – as if he is gazing down our doubtful path at all the sufferings that await us.

  ***

  The rebel bandits clatter in bearing swords, lances, and bows. They were already a dangerous and unpredictable lot, now they are heavily armed, as well. I must assert control over them without delay. What would Father do in this situation?

  He’d appoint an able lieutenant from among the new recruits.

  “You there,” I point to the man who had slugged Franz. “What’s your name?”

  “Norman, my lord.”

  “Henceforth it’s Lieutenant Norman,” I say. “You shall command these men, subordinate only to myself and to Captain Talbot.”

  Norman bows. “As Your Lordship wishes.”

  Talbot’s eyebrows rise with astonishment at his promotion. The other men stand about awkwardly. I must do something imperial to cement their loyalty.

  I recall my investiture ceremony last year when I received the official trappings of crown prince. After the ritual, I was supposed to be no longer a mere boy, but transformed into the King-in-waiting. The ceremony had been beautiful and solemn.

  Something akin to it might impress these men.

  I need a blade. During my investiture, Father tapped my shoulders with his sword and proclaimed that I’d begun a new life. I was to set aside all petty desires, he said, and hold service to my people foremost in my heart.

  “Captain Talbot,” I say, “give me your dagger.”

  Talbot hands over the long, thin knife. I hold it aloft.

  “This is the first weapon raised in my defense,” I say. “It is, therefore, the most honorable of blades.”

  I pause a moment so that all may behold the revered item. Then I speak in my most commanding voice:

  “Lieutenant Norman, kneel before me!”

  Norman does so.

  I am struck by his light hair and blue eyes. He is not swarthy like the other Eastlanders but looks very Sopronian. There is no time to consider such distractions now, however.

  I place the blade flat on his left shoulder and speak in what I hope is a solemn tone older than my years.

  “Do you, Norman, pledge
loyalty to King Bertram and to me, Prince Rupert, in his stead?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  I place the blade on his other shoulder.

  “Do you repent of your past misdeeds and vow to defend your Sovereign against all enemies?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  I offer my hand.

  “Then rise, Norman, soldier of the King.”

  Norman’s face glows, as if he’s been relieved of a heavy burden.

  I proceed to call the other thirty-six men forward by name, one at a time, and repeat the ceremony for each. The effect is amazing. Hardened faces melt with child-like emotion. Many of the men weep or kiss my hand, as if I am opening the very gates of heaven for them.

  I hate to admit that I start getting puffed up, feeling myself to be only the smallest step down from God Almighty. This is a dangerous trap, and I try to think about Father. King Bertram has true modesty and love in his heart. If only he were here now!

  So, this is how I become a leader – like a babe tossed from its cradle into the dust, struggling to find its way.

  Last of all I perform the ritual for Talbot, adding special thanks for his loyal service.

  “Stay by me,” I whisper in his ear. “Always speak the truth, however much I might hate it.”

  Unbidden, Clyde kneels before me. Of course, how could I have overlooked my first and most dedicated follower? I rest the blade upon his left shoulder.

  “Do you choose, by your own free will, to remain in my service?”

  “Aye, my lord!” he practically shouts.

  I move the blade to his other shoulder.

  “Then, as heir to the throne of our united country, I christen you Clyde – First Champion of the Eastlands.”

  Clyde regains his feet in a stupor, as if he is no longer aware of his surroundings. The whole room is quiet, motionless.

  I break the solemn mood with a shout:

  “Good fortune to us all!”

  “Hooray for Prince Rupert!” My soldiers cheer.

  I feel ready to collapse. Every ounce of energy has been rung out of me by the ceremony. Talbot takes over.

  “Prepare the men to march, Lieutenant Norman,” he commands.

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Norman and the others scatter across the camp to gather their possessions, leaving me alone with Talbot and Clyde. I want to curl myself into a corner and sleep, but crucial matters of strategy need to be discussed.

  “What is our best move, Captain?” I ask.

  “We should head north,” Talbot says. “Afflis will already be gathering strength to the south, blocking us there. The remainder of Durwick’s men will surely join him, as well.”

  “But honest men will flock to our banner,” Clyde says.

  Talbot nods.

  “Perhaps we can defeat some of the northern gangs and recruit from their ranks,” he says. “But once Afflis is fully organized, I doubt that we can prevail against him without help from the Sopronian army.”

  I stroke my chin, as I’ve seen Father do, although I lack his flowing beard. The world has become very adult, and I try to adopt an mature gesture.

  Talbot gives me his ironic little smile.

  “An envoy must inform King Bertram that Your Lordship is no longer held captive,” he says. “He must know that he can come to our aid without causing your death.”

  “We’ll smash them all – never doubt that fact!” Clyde says.

  Talbot and I exchange glances, but say nothing further.

  30: The Rebel Army Marches

  We head north in good spirits, a constant breeze drying the sweat from our brows as we labor across rolling forest and bramble. An occasional run-down farm or pasture breaks the dreary landscape, but in the main, this is an area of scant population.

  Clyde tramps along beside me.

  “It’s great to be free, eh, Your Lordship?” he observes.

  “Truly,” I reply.

  “Ah, if only we could find a battle around the next bend,” Clyde says. “I wish I had my poleax!”

  I do not share Clyde’s enthusiasm for battle, but I’m feeling my oats just the same. My hair flows freely in the wind. Never would I go bare headed under the hot Sopronian sun, but here I can rove freely. Here I am leader of a great Rebel Army!

  Actually, Talbot is the army leader. He has vowed to serve me, though – which means that I have the final say, right? Tramping along, arms swinging, I imagine myself to be on a wonderful adventure.

  I can deceive myself only so much, though, and harsh facts steal into my mind like goblins. We are all in deadly peril. The survival of Sopronia itself is in doubt, and hard fighting lies ahead. How many of us will be slain before the final outcome is achieved?

  To the west lurks the mountainous border with Sopronia. The peaks are beautiful, yet horrid, in their majesty. Icy clouds swirl among them, promising danger for any intruder.

  ***

  As the second day of our march draws on, a great pass emerges from the mists above us.

  It is narrower than Windy Gap and much higher. I christen it “Deadly Gap.” The name simply pops into my head and I cannot shake it out again. Our destiny awaits there.

  Talbot and Norman keep the men marching in disciplined order. Only when we take an afternoon break do they relax a bit to talk with me. As always, Clyde listens in.

  “We have made good time,” Norman says. “The men march faster without Durwick flailing their hides.”

  “Yes, they have kept the pace quite well,” Talbot says.

  Norman looks toward the mountains.

  “The pass draws nearer,” he says. “We should be in its foothills soon.”

  “Aye,” Talbot says, “that we shall ... indeed.”

  An awkward silence descends. The commanders look my direction expectantly, then at the mountains again. I take their hint; what needs to be done next is my responsibility. I draw Clyde away.

  “You do understand the situation, don’t you, Clyde?” I say.

  “Yes, my lord. We head for the pass so’s we may dispatch our messenger to the King.”

  I nod. The wind freshens a bit, tousling my hair. Why can’t the wind speak for me, too? I plunge ahead with my distasteful task.

  “I know you wish to stay and join such fighting as may occur,” I say, “but you can better serve our cause in a different way.”

  Clyde grows instantly wary; his eyes narrow.

  “What’s that, my lord?”

  “You must be our envoy to Sopronia,” I say.

  Clyde’s eyes widen with alarm now.

  “And leave you alone with this rabble? No, pray, send someone else!”

  “There is no one else,” I say.

  A dark cloud settles on Clyde’s face. His lips press into a tight line.

  “The King knows you,” I say. “He’ll believe what you tell him.”

  “Come with me, then,” Clyde says. “Leave Talbot to run the campaign.”

  I shake my head.

  “How many of these men would remain loyal if I left them? Very few, I’d reckon. I gave them my pledge.”

  Clyde stares at the ground. A tear rolls down one cheek.

  “Sopronia must claim the Eastlands, or be itself overwhelmed,” I say. “Was this not the goal you pursued when you entered our country?”

  Silence.

  “We must summon aid while there is still time,” I say. “Only you can do that.”

  Clyde gazes at the mountain pass a long while, then looks me straight in the eye.

  “I’ll go, then,” he says. “And I shall return to strike terror into your enemies.”

  ***

  Late that day, we reach a small settlement of thatch-roofed huts. Myself, Talbot, and Clyde enter it with a few soldiers while the other men rest in the surrounding fields. The hamlet is poor and shabby, as is the grizzled man who meets us.

  “Good afternoon,” I say. “Are you the headman here?”

  I try to sound frie
ndly, so as not to cause undue alarm.

  “That I am,” the man says. “Gilbert is my name.”

  “We are pleased to meet you, Gilbert,” I say.

  He looks me up and down.

  “Judging by your peculiar appearance and speech, you must be the wayward prince,” he says.

  “You would do well to show proper respect!” Talbot snarls.

  “It’s all right, Captain,” I say. “Gilbert only speaks the truth, after his plain fashion.”

  I turn back to the headman.

  “It is well that you have heard of us. You know, therefore, that we mean you no harm.”

  Gilbert cocks an eyebrow.

  “We only wish to trouble you on behalf of our comrade.” I gesture toward Clyde. “He must make passage over the mountains. He requires warm clothing and other necessaries.”

  Gilbert glances over his shoulder at the mountain pass and then looks at Clyde.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asks.

  “Clyde.”

  The people of the settlement, about a score of men and women, stand around nearby. Children peer from behind their parents with frightened eyes. All are as drab as the landscape.

  “We are currently low on funds,” I say. “But you will be well paid at the earliest possible moment.”

  Gilbert nods.

  “Grant me a few moments, Your Lordship,” he says.

  He walks over to the other villagers. They gather around him for a conference. I hear urgent voices, but can make out no specific words.

  “Perhaps we will have to take what we need,” Clyde says.

  “No, Clyde,” I say. “These people have been stolen from too much already. They must understand that we represent lawful authority.”

  “I wish they’d hurry,” Talbot says. “Our men are open to attack out in the fields.”

  After a few minutes, Gilbert returns with a boy about my age at his side. The lad has typical Eastlander looks – swarthy, lean, and hungry.

  “We have decided to help,” Gilbert says. “We ask no payment, but we do make two conditions.”

  Talbot looks furious, but says nothing.

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “The first is that my son, Niels, acts as guide.” Gilbert indicates the boy. “He knows the lower slopes well, though he’s not climbed to the pass itself.”

  Niels grins, but quickly becomes serious again at a stern glance from his father.

  “Agreed,” I say. “And the second condition?”

  Gilbert pauses, and some of his gruffness drops away.

  “Forgive me for asking, my lord,” he says, “but it’s clear that you and your followers are out seeking trouble. What is your purpose?”