Kinghood

by Joshua Rutherford

  Ely searched the small tables that lined the chamber. “Gerry, where is the serum?” he asked. “And the tea?”

  “It is at the ready,” Gerry replied, though from his tone it sounded as if he was not sure. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he hurried from the chamber.

  “You really want to have a full truth session now?” Symon inquired.

  “Are you that tired?” Dawkin replied. “It just turned the hour of the strong moon. Surely while you were on the outside you stayed up far past that.”

  “I did. To ride and scout, then fight and ride back, all before attending a feast for buffoons and drunkards.”

  “You sound so sour considering all the fun you have had,” Ely jested. “All the more reason for us to listen to you, to learn what has you in such a mood.”

  “The source of my mood right now is simple: lack of proper sleep.”

  “Soon enough, brother. Soon enough.” As Gerry entered with a tray of small bottles, cups, and kettle, along with a mortar and pestle, Ely turned to him. “Geremias.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Gerry retorted.

  “Good Mar! Are all my brothers in a mood tonight? Very well. Gerry, please prepare the truth serum with extra lavender and sweet hops, so that Symon here can rest well and hopefully... I say, hopefully... wake up in a better mood.”

  Gerry scowled at Ely but complied. He placed his tray on the center table and went about using the pestle and mortar to grind blue rose petals, before adding the other ingredients.

  While Gerry prepared the concoction, Symon took a seat on the couch at the west end of the chamber. “So what went on down here while I was gone?” he asked.

  “Very little,” Dawkin answered. “In preparation of your return, I practiced my Lewmarian. Is it safe to say you brought back some prisoners?”

  “Some and more,” Symon confirmed as he reclined, readying himself for the truth session.

  “Oh, do tell,” Ely prodded him. “Anyone noteworthy?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Symon!”

  “Fine, fine. The next time you ascend, you’ll find Warlord Konradt in our dungeon.”

  That perked the interest of the three all at once. “The Warlord Konradt?” Ely asked.

  “Son of Vice Warlord Videl?” Dawkin added. “One of the fiercest... nay, perhaps the fiercest Lewmarian warrior alive.”

  “Yes. That Warlord Konradt.” Symon smirked.

  Gerry turned from his tray, cradling a cup. He approached Symon. “It’s ready.”

  Symon accepted the cup. In it, small dots of blue floated in an amber-colored syrup.

  He looked up to find his brothers collecting around the tray, each one taking a cup for themselves.

  “I made the memory tea stronger than usual,” Gerry assured Ely and Dawkin. “I suspect we’ll need to recall every detail of what Symon has to say.”

  “Extra strong, you claim,” Ely repeated, sniffing the concoction in his cup. “It’s likely to give us a worse headache than usual.”

  “You can handle it,” Gerry remarked.

  “Brothers...” Dawkin said. “Princes. Let us do our duty.” Dawkin raised his cup in a toast. Ely and Gerry did likewise.

  Symon looked on at them, then back to his cup. He raised it. “To Marland.”

  He threw his head back and swallowed the whole of its contents in one gulp.

  Once more, he told himself. We do this.

  Chapter 5

  He moves... something about his motion is so familiar, Symon told himself.

  From a hillock, Symon watched Everitt weave through brush and past boulders in nothing but his wool long shirts and trousers. He had discarded his boots so his feet made nary a sound. Within moments, Symon had to strain to see him through the leaves and branches he rounded. A moment more, and he disappeared from sight altogether.

  I should have gone myself, Symon thought. Everitt had spoken against it though, convincing the prince that it was too risky. His argument had been sound: Symon removing his armor to stalk and slay the Lewmarian watchmen would have put the men in a state of unease. Too many would have protested, and more would have grown anxious while waiting for Symon to complete the task, anxiety the whole of the army could ill afford given that their numbers mirrored their enemy’s too closely. No, it was too much to gamble. Symon - in full armor and arms, remaining in the rear – knew he had to keep up the appearances of his princehood. Still, the nagging feeling that he should be doing more remained.

  Four chirps sounded from the brush. At that, Symon motioned the four at his side forward. Like Everitt, they were barefoot and without armor, armed only with daggers. They crept in Everitt’s direction in single file, each as quiet as the one before them.

  Time slogged on, each minute a lifetime. The waiting only intensified Symon’s resolve to lead from the front, to climb the next hillock and present himself in full view of the Lewmarians. To demonstrate his fearlessness. To see the fear on their faces. To challenge the best of them as he had always dreamed.

  Everitt’s return put an end to Symon’s heroic fantasy. The knight came back with the other four, each with blood on their blades and steely looks in their eyes.

  “You well?” Symon inquired.

  “We are, Your Highness,” Everitt answered as he wiped his blade on the grass.

  “And the oil?”

  “On the ship furthest from the camp. Once the fire we set catches it, it will turn the whole of the ship into a cook fire, mark my words.”

  Good, Symon told himself. Everything is as it should be. Still...

  “Change of plans,” Symon announced. He caught Everitt’s wide-eyed look, along with the quizzical stares of the rest of his men, both the four who had returned and the dozen in armor behind him and by his side. “I will return to the battlefield, to take my place there.”

  “Your Highness, the soldiers there are set. They are at the ready.”

  “Yes, I suspect they are,” Symon stated as he turned his back and hiked back through the dense brush, to where their horses were corralled.

  He heard Everitt hurry alongside him. “What is the meaning of this?!” Everitt insisted, his voice hushed but his tone anything but.

  “Careful, knight.”

  “No disrespect, Your Highness. But this sudden turn of events unsettles the men.”

  “As it should.”

  “My Liege?”

  “This is too easy. Something is amiss.”

  “Such as...?”

  “Their commander. Where is their warlord at a time like this?”

  “Your Highness, I do not know. But I do know that if you abandon your men now—”

  “I’m not abandoning them.”

  “If you—”

  “I’m merely fine-tuning our plans. That is all.” Symon leaned towards Everitt. “Do you have faith in me?”

  “Always,” replied Everitt, without a hint of hesitation.

  Symon peered over his shoulder, back to his men. “And them?”

  “Your Highness, this sudden suspicion is unlike you. Why do you ask?”

  Symon hesitated to reveal his concerns, but upon seeing the honest sense of worry on Everitt’s face, he relented. “I know of the rumors swirling about the Court. There has been talk from the barons. Do you know of what I speak?”

  Now Everitt displayed his own form of hesitation. He pulled back a bit, his gaze averting Symon’s. “I, I have heard. Some tales. All unfounded, I assure you.”

  “Then no doubt you have heard the moniker I have supposedly earned.”

  “Yes. Your Highness.”

  “Say it.”

  “Your–”

  “I command you.”

  “Prince Fool,” Everitt stated, flatly. “They call you Prince Fool.”

  Behind my back, of course, Symon thought. The name made him seethe with anger. And not just at his countrymen. He knew his brother Ely’s most recent antics had secured the embarrassing brand upon their
noble family name. Only a month prior he had caused a furor in Court when Lady Cecily, daughter of Baron Dederic of Har-Kin Hamage, chanced upon Ely with Lady Elyscia, second cousin to Baron Gale of Har-Kin Mallory. On her way to view the sunset from the battlements with other women of the Court, Lady Cecily had found the two making love in one of the bartizans. The fact that Ely had danced and kissed Lady Cecily the night before, going on to profess his interest in her to Baron Gale, certainly did not help matters. Cecily went so far as to slap the both of them before storming from the battlements in tears. That incident – as well as others Ely was responsible for within the past year – gave rise to talk of the heir to the throne not being of sound mind. Thus the name Prince Fool was coined.

  Though it had been a few weeks since Symon had heard the nefarious label, the sting of it was still fresh, for he had worked too hard to secure the trust of his men. A few antics by his brother had nearly undone all that. And if his own men could not trust him...

  Symon shuddered at the thought. His mind returned to Everitt, who remained loyally waiting. “The men need an example of leadership,” Symon started again. “One that will put that moniker out of their minds. If even one thinks me a fool, then I have lost the whole of them. Understood?”

  “Your intent is unquestionable. I know that all you do, you do for Marland.”

  Symon turned to leave.

  “But what will you do?” Everitt asked. “At the battlefield?”

  Symon glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Rest.”

  Over an hour passed before Symon saw Everitt again. By then, Symon had certainly rested. He had even gone about admiring the plume of smoke rising from the Lewmarian ship that his men had set afire.

  When Everitt entered the battlefield, however, he was anything but relaxed. He rode in at full gallop, both he and his horse appearing nearly spent. The rest of his company trailed behind, in much the same condition. The whole of them rallied to Everitt, on a rise overlooking the very spot from where they had pulled the dead. Many, to Everitt’s surprise, still laid about, in scarred and disheveled armor.

  “My Liege,” one of the riders addressed Everitt. “To where do we ride next?”

  Everitt scanned the field. He’s searching for me, Symon saw. Come on, come on, Symon thought but dared not shout. I altered the plan but a little. Look about, you can piece together the changes. I’m right here. Look in my direction. Look at me.

  “To our prince,” Everitt replied to the man. “He must be close.”

  Everitt continued to search in vain, finding no sign of Symon or the rest.

  “Perhaps he rode onward,” said another.

  “He said he’d be here,” barked Everitt. “With the others... Damn it, where are they?”

  “They turned coward! All of them! Even the prince...”

  An arrow poked through the back and front of the babbling rider’s throat, putting an end to his traitorous utterance. More bolts followed, from all directions.

  “They got ahead of us,” Everitt shouted, as he looked about.

  “They’re on all sides,” said another rider, before he too fell, bloodied by an arrow.

  Those Marlish riders who weren’t struck found themselves falling nonetheless, as their horses endured arrow after arrow. Everitt’s mount almost threw him before collapsing under the onslaught of five bolts. Sir Everitt scrambled from the flailing beast, ushering his troops to the cover of the nearest trees.

  Symon fought the urge to rise to their aid. He knew the moment was too soon, the timing not quite right. Please Mar, Symon prayed. Provide them with cover. Shield them. Save them!

  Six Marlish men, including Everitt, managed to make it to the tree line before the arrows stopped. The six searched the surrounding field and forest. As did Symon, unawares to them.

  Symon scanned the same areas five times over. Only on the sixth did he spot an irregularity. A single bush – or what he thought a bush – seemed out of place. He considered what might be amiss before realizing that it was not where it was before.

  The bush moved. It rose from the ground. From beneath, Symon caught a glimpse of boots and deerskin pant legs.

  The movement of that one bush was mirrored by another. Then one more. Suddenly, the whole forest floor across from him seemed to wake from its slumber. Symon, marveling at the single act of camouflage, watched Lewmarians stepped out from hiding to approach the rise where Everitt and his men laid trapped.

  The enemy’s motion presented some disturbing possibilities to Symon. What if they saw my men and I hide? What if our own concealment came too late? They could have stood by and watched it all. Our surprise – our entire advantage – could be for naught.

  Symon hated this ruse. Only moments before, a handful of his own men had been slaughtered. Now, he and the rest potentially faced the same fate. And there was nothing he could do about it, for any apt movement would for sure give him and his soldiers away.

  All I can do, Symon realized, is to pray to Mar. For patience. For myself. And my men.

  The Lewmarians, with sticks and leaves applied to their clothing of leather and animal hides, spread out from their position. In a semi-circle, they descended on the six, who remained hunched behind a line of thick-trunk pines. Everitt, his eyes never leaving the advancing enemy, remained the most focused and tranquil of his men, who exhibited a range of fear and anticipation.

  One Lewmarian of slender build inched toward Symon’s position. Though he could practically reach out and touch the prince, he had somehow not taken notice. Symon held his breath nonetheless. This could work, he told himself. If they only keep going, I can give the word, my men can flank...

  A horn blow shook all from their concentration. Symon himself fought the urge to turn, lest he make any move that could be noticed. The men, both Lewmarians and Marlish, looked to the northeast, from whence the noise came.

  Though out of his viewpoint, Symon suspected their attention was on the crest behind him. His suspicions were confirmed when the Lewmarians raised their weapons in unison and cheered, their eyes vibrant and hopeful, their screams setting off another blow of the horn. Through their shouts and war cries Symon managed to pick out the distinct clop of horse hooves. Sturdy mounts, he supposed. From Lewmar.

  The beasts nearly trampled him where he laid but still he dared not move. He stared up at the riders, the first of which rode ahead of the column, alone.

  Warlord Konradt.

  The Lewmarians were nothing if not braggarts. Tales of their warlords reached the harbors of Arcporte as easily as ships carrying grain and fish. From sailors’ lips, news came to the Court of the sons of Vice Warlord Videl, who had risen through the ranks to command their own small fleets of raiding ships.

  The one in Symon’s sight was easily identifiable, if only by the tattoos alone. Markings of an unknown language wrapped the whole of his bald head, standing in for where hair should have been. Rings of iron pierced the lobes of his ears, six on each, supposedly one for each Har-Kin he had conquered on the shores of Afari. The hair of his brows and beard was blond, or at least it would have been had the warlord washed recently. Aside from his head and his hands, the whole of Konradt was covered in animal skins. The bearskin cloak around his shoulders, a thick fur dull brown in color, stood out as particularly impressive. Legend had it that the bear had dared to venture into one of his camps at night, thus waking the warlord, who responded by slaying the beast with a hatchet to its throat.

  From below, Symon could not see the whole of Konradt’s eyes, for his gaze shifted from left to right as he rode. He did not know if the man possessed any doubt or fear. Perhaps by the grace of Mar it is best I don’t know, Symon considered. I need not focus on the warlord or his musings. I must direct my attention to the battle at hand. To its strategy. By Mar, I pray our plan works.

  Konradt rode on until the trees that Everitt and the five hunkered behind were a stone’s throw away. He dismounted from his steed, a move that brought further cheers from the Lew
marians. Konradt turned full circle – both to search the landscape and to soak in the praise – before resting his sights on the Marlish Right Captain.

  The warlord uttered a few brusque words. Upon seeing that the Marlish did not understand, he drew a dagger from his belt. He held it out in the palm of his hands, for Everitt to see. He dropped the blade at his feet and pointed at it. Then he waved the Captain and his men forward.

  Everitt, understanding, nodded. He leaned against the trunk of a pine, to make eye contact with his men. All the Marlish stayed huddled behind the trunks of other trees, fearful of being seen and even more afraid of what was to come.

  “Your Highness... fellow Marlish... if any of you can hear me, now is the time to act.”

  Everitt’s plea was loud and strong. Konradt, hearing it, looked to the skies, to the forest and field around him. Finding no response, he laughed. His men joined suit.

  I hear you, Everitt. Symon’s eyes shifted from under the visor. He spied the Lewmarian nearest to him, only two feet away. I want to respond, he said to himself as much as he wanted to tell Everitt. But not yet. Our men’s positions are too close. If the Lewmarians would only inch closer, and group together...

  Konradt, his laughter spent, barked another phrase. When Everitt failed to respond, Konradt pulled his broadsword. He stabbed the air a number of times and shouted an incoherent chorus, each thrust and cry rallying more men to his side.

  That’s it. Keep on, you bastard.

  Everitt, with sword in hand, pushed himself up from the trunk. A look of acceptance came over his face. He scanned the forest around him. Concluding that his spot was the most defensible, he motioned his men to join him. He switched his sword to his left hand, so as to place his right fist over his heart.