by Brian Bakos
“Uh ... yes they are,” I say. “Thank you.”
I shove the boots on, feeling oddly humiliated.
“There’s a legend in this,” Petra says. “’The Victory of the Barefoot Prince.’ People will speak of it for generations.”
We all share a hearty laugh. Amidst such wondrous success, a little bruised dignity hardly matters.
But then a hellish sound rips through our joy. In the water below us, sharks are attacking the wounded pirates. The poor devils’ screams freeze my very soul.
My knees give out, and I clutch some rigging to keep from falling down. Even our most battle-hardened soldiers gasp with horror; their eyes widen in the flame light.
“Archers!” Norman commands.
Men rush to the gunwales and shoot arrows at the fearsome beasts, and at the pirates as well so as to end their agony. Finally the screaming stops.
I look over the ghastly waters, red with flames and blood. Torn bodies drift among the knife-like shark fins.
“This must all end soon, Norman,” I say, “lest we become as savage as those fish.”
50: Dawn Salute
Gray dawn is just beginning when Hobbs boards with the last of the shore party.
“What happened back there?” I say.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Hobbs says. “We started the fires as ordered, then a storehouse blew sky high. Lucky we was already in the water, else we’d have gone up with it.”
“Must have been gun powder kept there,” Petra said, “in a hidden storeroom, maybe. I should have searched the place more thoroughly.”
“Gunpowder?” I say. “We could have used it against Afflis!”
“True,” Petra says. “Probably we’d have just blowed up our own selves, though. And we’d still be in that foul town.”
He strides about the deck with authority, both fists on his hips.
“How I’ve missed oaken planks beneath my feet!” he says. “What shall we christen this vessel, Highness?”
“We shall call this ship ... Windshadow,” I say, “because it blocked the wind for us as we floated in the water.”
“A fine name,” Petra says. “And the other vessel?”
“I christen it Starcoast II, in honor of your lost ship,” I say.
Petra beams with pleasure and offers a deep bow.
“Highness, you are too gracious.”
“No more so than you deserve, Captain Petra,” I say.
Clyde makes his way across the deck, brandishing a sword.
“There’s a load of weapons below decks,” he says. “Any kind you want.”
“Outstanding!” I say. “At last we can face the enemy on equal terms.”
“I brought this for you, Highness,” Clyde says. “It’s the only one of its kind.”
He hands over a short, recurved bow, quite unlike our unwieldy longbows.
“That has an Oriental look,” Petra says. “You can shoot it from horseback.”
“Thank you, Clyde,” I say.
I hold the weapon aloft and shout for everyone to hear.
“Henceforth, this shall be the symbol of our blessed victory!”
Everyone cheers until they are hoarse.
***
The last embers of the burned town are dying out, and a new light strengthens in the eastern sky.
“Are we ready, Petra?” I say.
“Aye, my lord.”
I approach the bronze gun at the ship’s stern. It shines cold and deadly in the rising sun. My face reflects back to me, distorted by the barrel’s curves.
This is the face of future, I think suddenly.
“Best stand back, Your Lordship,” Petra says. “I can’t guarantee that this won’t blow itself to smithereens.”
I move away. Petra touches a lighted stick to the gun.
BOOM!
Thick smoke pours from the muzzle, then drifts back upon us. I feel intoxicated by the acrid smell. The shot hurtles over the dead town and crashes to the land beyond. A mighty cheer echoes from both ships.
“Afflis has my answer,” I say. “At first light, just as promised.”
51: Indecision on the Water
We settle into our new home. Windshadow, which had appeared so big from a distance, now seems rather small. Its 70-foot length is crammed with men and weapons.
Fishing is good, and we eat our fill. Porpoises splash and chatter, smiling at us with their curved mouths.
On shore, Afflis’ troops stir like angry hornets, poking about the town’s ruins. We drive them off with cannon fire. Another night of fog and chill passes. We keep a sharp lookout for raiders, but none appear.
***
The following morning, our lookouts give a surprising report:
“Afflis is gone!”
Windshadow’s deck rocks with excitement. Opinion quickly divides into two camps.
“The King has finally crossed the river, and Afflis has gone to fight him,” Clyde says. “We must follow.”
Norman expresses the opposing view.
“It’s a trap,” he says. “Afflis seeks to lure us ashore for an ambush. His force is hiding in the hills.”
All around, men argue, here and there a fight erupts which Norman quickly squelches bellowing:
“Save it for the enemy!”
Then the launch from Starcoast II pulls alongside. Captain Talbot disembarks and makes his way across the crowded deck. The bickering immediately stops.
“Good morning, Captain,” I say. “We are of two minds as to what’s become of the enemy. What do you think?”
“I truthfully do not know,” Talbot says. “Both possibilities make equal sense.”
“Afflis is gone,” Clyde says. “If you don’t believe me, send scouts.”
“Without horses?” Norman says. “They’d be useless.”
“We must land,” Clyde says. “The King needs our help.”
I draw Petra into the discussion.
“Could we transport the army by ship?”
The sea captain shakes his head.
“Overloaded as we are, we’d flounder like beached whales,” he says. “Besides, I’ve only nine crewmen between the two vessels, and one of them is a doctor without knowledge of seamanship.”
“Couldn’t our soldiers help?” I say.
Petra shakes his head again.
“The mouth of this bay is narrow, my lord, with rocks and a nasty current. Even experienced crews would find the passage challenging.”
Indecision grips my heart. I move alone to the bow and try to think. Over the land, a glorious day is advancing, but my mind is dark and confused.
A mistake either way could result in destruction for us or for the Sopronian army. We are safe on board, but it’s a cowardly refuge if we withhold aid when it is needed.
After some minutes, Petra approaches.
“I’m as uncertain as anybody, Highness,” he says. “But it seems to me there is only one decision you can make.”
“What’s that?”
“Take the army ashore,” Petra says. “You’ll go mad otherwise, wondering what’s become of your father and countrymen.”
I gaze toward the open sea. Already the porpoises are out, and birds wheel in the clear skies.
Why does war have to spoil everything? I wonder.
Talbot joins us.
“What is your decision, my lord?” he asks.
“We land immediately,” I say.
52: Ashore
I step off the launch and wade ashore with the last of our troops. We stretch our cramped muscles and glance warily about the charred ruins of the town.
“Thank heaven we’re off that floating prison,” Clyde says. “I’ve ate enough raw fish to last a lifetime.”
I look back across the bay toward Windshadow and Starcoast II. Only Petra and his crewmen remain aboard them with our wounded soldiers.
“Those fish might sound pretty good around supper time,” I say.
C
lyde brandishes his sword.
“Before this day’s over, everything will be settled,” he says. “No one will care about missing supper.”
We begin our march. Talbot arrays the bowmen on the landward side to counter any attack from the hills. The other men move along the coast, shiny new weapons on their shoulders, free arms swinging lustily. They seem about as happy as men going off to battle are ever likely to be.
I walk near the head of the column with Talbot, carrying my new bow and a quiver of razor arrows. Clyde accompanies me, as always.
“How far to the river, Talbot?” I ask.
“About twenty miles, my lord.”
“We needn’t go that far,” Clyde says. “We’ll find the King somewhere north of it – and Afflis, too.”
Talbot nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
I drop back to speak with Norman.
“How do you feel, Lieutenant?” I ask.
“Like a sheep going to the slaughter, my lord,” Norman says.
“Oh, fish guts!” Clyde says.
“I believe we’re walking into a trap,” Norman says. “Afflis is waiting for us to get far enough away from the bay so’s we can’t retreat. Then he’ll attack.”
These words hang heavy in my ears. Was I right to thrust us into this march, or am I sending us off to our doom? Time will soon answer all questions.
In my mind, I hold fast to Talbot’s admonition: “Stop blaming yourself!”
It’s all in God’s hands now. I try to concentrate on the fine day. The sun climbs steadily, and a wonderful sea odor wafts on the breeze. Sea gulls wheel about, cawing.
***
But the atmosphere changes drastically when a huge evil-looking bird begins circling overhead. Men gasp with shock, but I am not surprised to see it.
“It’s the Devil Bird,” Clyde says, “come all the way from Windy Gap.”
The creature’s feathers shine greenish-black, polluting the sky. Its bald head gleams, and its ear-splitting screech drives away the sea gulls.
“It looks to be the same creature,” Talbot says. “Unless there are two such monstrosities flying around.”
“It’s the Pit-Eyed Thing,” I say.
“Beg pardon, my lord?” Talbot says.
“Up there, riding atop the bird,” I say.
Talbot glances around us warily.
“I’d advise Your Lordship to speak quietly of such things,” he says in a low voice. “Are you unwell?”
“Don’t worry, Captain,” I say, “my PET no longer frightens me.”
“Your pet?”
“It’s kind of a reverse guardian angel,” I say, “hoping to see me fail. I used to think it was just imagination, but it’s as real as the ground under our feet.”
Talbot frowns. He seems to suppress a shudder.
“I cannot make a friend of it,” I say, “but I must grant respect. I think every ruler who cares for his people must have one. It’s tangled up with our conscience.”
“As I’ve stated before, I do not envy Your Lordship’s position,” Talbot says.
The bird’s appearance casts a pall over the troops. Their good cheer vanishes along with the sea gulls. To heighten their distress, a group of enemy horsemen appears atop a low hill.
“Defensive positions!” Talbot orders.
Our troops close ranks, crouching behind any available cover. The archers draw their bowstrings.
“Save your arrows!” Talbot calls. “Wait til they get closer.”
The mounted foe remains arrogantly on their hill, surveying us.
“This is just as I feared,” Norman says.
“There can’t be more than a handful of ‘em,” Clyde says. “They seek to delay us while Afflis attacks the King.”
He steps before the front rank of archers and shouts up at the horsemen.
“Come on down and taste our steel!”
Crossbowmen take up position on the crest.
“Get back here!” Talbot snaps.
“Why don’t we go forward?” Clyde says.
A dark shape hurtles out of the sky. Clyde ducks just as the bird strikes him. He falls and rolls, kicking at the horrible creature.
“Get away!”
The bird snaps viciously, ripping Clyde’s tunic. Then it leaps into the sky. I draw my bow string full back, every muscle aches with the strain. I snarl between clenched teeth.
“Filthy brute!”
Despite its great size, the bird is a difficult target, jerking this way and that. My arrow flies wide ...
But then the bird makes a sharp turn and runs right into it.
Craaaw!
The monster shakes loose the arrow and starts to climb again, but other archers take aim and let fly a storm of missiles. Shot through a dozen times, the bird tumbles from the sky and vanishes over the cliff.
Absolute silence. Then:
“Charge!” Talbot cries.
The horsemen flee under a torrent of our arrows. The enemy crossbowmen shoot a few bolts and then take off as well. We gain the crest unharmed. Before us, thirty enemy soldiers retreat.
Clyde spits after them with contempt.
“Just a little diversion, like I said.”
Blood is trickling from a head wound.
“Let me see your injury, Clyde,” I say.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Let it bleed a while, wash the poison away.”
“Reform ranks,” Talbot orders. “Quick march!”
53: The Reckoning
We head south on the double. Some great store of energy has been liberated in the men. Their feet tromp a hypnotic beat, and a chant rumbles through their ranks:
Ru-PERT! Ru-PERT! Ru-PERT!
Their enthusiasm sends my spirits soaring. My feet barely seem to touch the ground.
“They can’t stop us,” I say. “We’re a mighty flood washing the Eastlands clean!”
For I don’t know how many miles, the army tromps – moving as a single mighty being. I am the spearhead of an astonishing power, scarcely an individual any longer. The giddy feeling blots out all awareness of my burning lungs and aching legs.
“We’re almost there,” Clyde says. “I can feel it.”
The army begins to flag. Some of the less hardy men fell back. Others trip, get up again. The chanting dies out, and only the rhythmic tramping remains. Then a new sound begins – drifting in and out, muffled by the hills. The din of battle.
“Halt!” Talbot commands.
We stumble to a stop. Men lean on their weapons, breathless. The stragglers catch up. The clash of arms drifts clearly in the air now.
After a brief rest, we move on. The clamor of battle draws us forward, giving us renewed strength. We scale a final hill and peer at the fight raging below.
Two forces contend on the level ground, midway between the river and our vantage point. Above the chaos, Imperial banners snap defiantly.
“The King’s army!” the men cry.
Our joy is short-lived, for the situation below us is grim. The outnumbered royal troops are losing ground steadily. Before long, the brutal weight of the enemy assault will break them, as it broke our resistance at the stockade.
Afflis’ cavalry brings up the rear, as always. They drive the infantry mercilessly toward the slaughter. The enemy foot soldiers fight like maddened beasts pushing the Sopronian troops back toward the marsh along the river.
“We must hit the cavalry from behind,” Talbot says, “scatter them with arrows. See to it, Norman.”
“Aye, sir,” Norman replies.
He quickly gathers all of the archers and heads downhill.
“Come on, Clyde,” I say. “They’ll not keep me away this time.”
We fall in behind the archers and begin creeping down the hillside, crouching in the high grass. The enemy horsemen do not seem to notice us.
We gain the level ground and dash forward. Still the cavalry gives us no heed. When we are within good bow range, No
rman halts our progress and raises an arm. Then he spots me.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps. “Get back!”
“Come on!” I say. “I can shoot as well as anybody.”
“Very well, then.”
Norman slashes his arm down.
We all let fly together. A barrage of arrows hisses toward the enemy horsemen, knocking several from their saddles. The others wheel about in confusion.
“Shoot at will!” Norman orders.
We launch arrows as quickly as we can fit them on our bowstrings, decimating the cavalry. Men accustomed to terrorizing others are now themselves being terrorized.
“Big men on horseback,” Clyde sneers. “Sitting ducks!”
I scan the enemy, looking for one man.
“Over there on the black horse!” I shout. “Afflis!”
We concentrate on the enemy leader. Afflis rides about frantically dodging our arrows. Rage strengthens my arms. My vision turns red, then black, then to absolute clarity.
How many have suffered at the hands of that evil man? He tried to destroy my country, enslave my people. He dared to strike my royal person!
I draw my powerful bow and let fly at Afflis – the arrow goes wide. I shoot again and miss. On the third draw, sharp pain tears through my shoulder and back.
“Ah!” I drop the weapon.
Norman is instantly at my side.
“You’re hurt!” he cries.
“I’ve pulled a muscle is all,” I say. “Keep shooting.”
Afflis is galloping away now, ducking down in the saddle and hugging his horse’s neck. Arrows fly thick as hornets, but none strike home.
“Some curse protects him!” Clyde says.
The surviving cavalry scatters as Talbot’s men crash into the enemy infantry. Afflis’ foot soldiers reel from the unexpected attack, and the faltering Sopronian troops rally. The battle becomes a roaring maelstrom of injury and death.
Then, despite their still superior numbers, the enemy begins to crack. Pressed from two sides, deprived of their leader and cavalry, they cannot maintain discipline. A trickle of panicked men runs away, then a flood. Others throw down their weapons and surrender.
With astonishing abruptness, the fighting stops.
54: Triumph
“It’s over!” Clyde raises both fists and leaps straight up to an astonishing height. “We’ve won!”
I am too spent to celebrate, but simply ease myself onto a rock. My shoulder throbs with hot pain, every other muscle and bone hurts fiercely. All around, men are shouting, officers bellow orders, and the wounded moan. But behind all this racket dwells a profound silence.