The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  She should feel happy. Relieved. Elated.

  But all she felt was shame. This young warrior had rescued her. Now she had the deep fear that she would be sent home to her family, where her friends and tribe would learn the tales of what had happened to her. And then what? To go through the rest of her life as a disgraced woman? A tattooed pet? Was that now her future? To be a lonely spinster?

  She could not stand thinking of what was ahead for her.

  But there was another way out. Just beyond Armand’s fingertips was the carbine he had used so bravely against the Ayan. She could gently untangle her body from his, grab the carbine, and stroll away. By placing the short barrel against the base of her jaw, one strong finger pull would end it all. Would end the shame. Stop the bad dreams. Her family and tribe no doubt thought she was dead. What difference would the timing make?

  Then Armand stirred, moved a hand, and murmured, “Are you all right, m’lady?”

  Then it came to her. How could she repay this boy’s bravery by selfishly walking off and ending it all before him? How could she do that to him?

  Melinda whispered back. “I’m fine now, Armand. Thank you for asking.”

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “Quite warm, thank you.”

  Armand tightened his grip about her and she was surprised: she thought she would flinch or shy away from such a grasp, after all that had gone on with Joe and the others of the Ayan tribe, but she felt comfortable. Memories flashed back to her, of Dad holding her tight, telling her tales about the north and the ice and the polar bears, and Dad’s oldest brother, wrapping her up in a heavy blanket as they sat outside to watch the Northern Lights, uncle whispering her stories about what the lights meant and how the People of the North had lived through so much.

  Those memories comforted her. She was now warm. She was now safe. Tears came to her eyes. Those family memories… she could feel them fighting against the cold shame that she had carried for such a long time.

  “M’lday?”

  “Yes, Armand?”

  “Tomorrow night, I promise, we’ll build a fire. And we’ll be much warmer.”

  “I know we will,” Melinda said, gently touching his hand. “For you do keep your promises, Armand de la Cloutier.”

  Two more days of riding south, the weather got warmer, and they came to a wide stream and Melinda said, “Can we stop for a while?”

  Armand really wanted to keep moving but there was a something hopeful in her voice. About them were some small willow saplings, and a hillock of exposed rock and dirt. “What’s up, m’lady?”

  She pointed to the stream. “It’s a warm day, the sun is out, and we’re alone, aren’t we?”

  He looked around. “So far, so good.”

  She got off her horse to the ground, let the reins fall free. “Then I desperately need to bathe.”

  “Melinda….”

  She dropped her coat to the ground. “Just a while, and it’ll make me feel so much better.” Melinda wrinkled her nose. “It’d probably do you a world of good as well.”

  Armand got off Jasper, let his reins drop as well, undid the carbine from the saddle. “All right. Make it quick, and I’ll keep watch up there, on the rocks.”

  She started undoing her dirty and torn blouse. “You can go up there but don’t you dare peak, Armand de la Cloutier. No show for you. All right?”

  He didn’t want to argue. “That’s fine, Melinda. I’ll be up on the rocks. I shan’t peek. But do be quick.”

  Armand clambered up the rocks and dirt, and in a moment or two, heard a squeal. He couldn’t help it, he had to look. He turned and saw her, unclothed, wade into the stream, bringing water up to herself, seeing her long legs, the curve of her buttocks and her back, which had scars and old scratches. For the past few years he had dated a few girls from the local noble families and none of them seemed real. They all seemed like young and dedicated actresses, playing a role. But there was nothing fake about Melinda. She was real, she was true, and he was stirred at how attractive she looked. Of course, his mother and sister Michelle would turn up their collective noses at her, and not even consent to be in the same room. But he was sure Jeannette would find her fascinating to be around.

  Beyond that, Armand also felt a fierce sense of pride and joy that the men who had injured her were now dead from his hand. Melinda dipped down into the water, letting her hair fall into the stream, and then he saw it again, that black flash at the base of her neck, the jagged cross. It came to him in a sharp flash that she had been branded, like cattle, like a possession…

  Like a slave.

  Up on the rocks, carbine across his lap, binoculars in hand. From behind him he could hear singing, some splashing, and one shout, “Damn it, Armand, this water is cold! Clean but damn cold!”

  He didn’t turn his head. “I’m sure, m’lady, I’m quite sure.”

  “If it wasn’t a stream, at least I could warm it up for you,” she called out, laughing again.

  Armand picked up the binoculars, kept watch on the far horizon. It looked like a plume of smoke out there in the distance. They had made good time moving south, but moving to where? He still had his original goal in mind, to get to a village or someplace that had a telegraph station, or a consulate for the Empire, to transmit a message to the Lord Chancellor. But so far all they had found was a rolling prairie land, some streams, but no buildings, no villages, no --–

  A scream.

  Armand grabbed his carbine, scampered down the rocks and dirt, hearing a scream again, and there was Melinda, on the shoreline, clothes held up against her. There was a figure standing across the stream. Armand ran to her, yelling, “It’s okay, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

  He skidded to a halt next to Melinda, her hair wet, shaking. “He… he came up to me… surprised me… I… I didn’t know what to do.”

  Armand looked across, half-fearing, half-expecting to see an Ayan warrior, but no, what he saw was a young, dirty boy, dressed in rags, barefoot, scratching at his nose, looking at them with a mix of curiosity and fear. He wasn’t a Plains Indian either, just a dirty young boy that wouldn’t look out of place back at the ruins in Potomick.

  Melinda was shivering so hard he could practically feel it, standing next to her. She whispered, “Shoot him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said, her voice louder. “Shoot him!”

  Armand looked at her. “I shall do no such thing.”

  She was sobbing now. “He… he leered at me… he saw me naked… he was going to get me… he… he…”

  He gently grasped her left elbow, turned her around. “It’s just a boy. Not even old enough to shave. I won’t shoot him. Now, go over to those willows, and get dressed. We need to get going.”

  She moved into the willows and Armand looked back at the boy, who gave him a little wave of his hand. Armand waved back, and then the boy wandered off. Melinda came out, moving surely and quickly, dressed, her hair still wet, and without a word, she got up on Freedom and he followed her, riding hard as well.

  They stopped three more times that day, and each time, Armand scanned the horizon to the north, seeing the thin plumes and puffs of smoke. Something troubling started tickling at the back of his throat, at the back of his hands. Melinda rode up at the third time. “Problems?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can sense it. Sounds strange but that’s the way I feel. We’re being watched, maybe, or followed.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Armand handed the binoculars over to her, pointed to the distance. She brought the glasses up, the wind playing with her long hair. “Smoke.”

  “That’s right. Smoke. I’ve been noticing plumes and puffs of smoke, all day long now.”

  She lowered the binoculars, handed them back to Armand. “So? Could be villages or settlements.”

  “Perhaps, m’lady. Perhaps.”

  Freedom shifted under her, and Melinda said, “But you don’t think so.�
�

  “No,” he said. “We’ve passed through that area yesterday, and the day before that. Except for that little boy, we haven’t seen anybody, haven’t seen any signs of villages or settlements. No, those plumes of smoke are from somebody on the march.”

  Melinda reached over, took the binoculars back, and looked up again at the horizon. Jasper shivered underneath him, like he could sense their nervousness. “Signals, maybe?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Our pursuers spot our trail, light a fire, throw green wood on it, or something else that makes smoke, as a signal to the other groups. Telling them where to go.”

  She sighed, returned the binoculars to him. “Those who are following us. The Ayans, that’s who.”

  “None other.”

  “Then let’s get riding.”

  “Lets,” Armand said.

  Chapter Three

  On the next day, riding over a lip of earth, they came upon a desolate flatland that stretched to every side of the horizon, save where they had just ridden from. A cold wind was blowing and Melinda said, “What is this place? There’s not a damn thing growing, as far as I can see.”

  Just under a klick away there was shape, standing there alone. Armand said, “Let’s ride to that place, see what’s what. And you’re right, not a damn thing is growing.”

  As they rode further south, Armand could see they were both wrong. There was grass growing beneath them, and some scrub brush, but it was brown, twisted, stunted, like some old disease was killing it at its birth. They rode closer to the shape, and he saw three logs set up in a triangle, and it got colder as he saw what else was there.

  Hanging from the apex of the poles were three skulls, their jawbones held together by old rawhide.

  Armand held up Jasper as Melinda rode up, looking out beyond the poles. The land was flat and looked like pavement, just like Henri had warned. Armand held out his hand to Melinda.

  “No, not so fast,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  Armand shivered, and wished it were from the cold. “A friend of mine warned me about this kind of place. A place where a sun bomb was dropped, during the War of the World.”

  Melinda’s face seemed to freeze. “I thought the tales of the sun bombs were just legends. Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Armand said. “My friend is in the army. He knows these things. He told me to look out for a warning symbol, the poles with three skulls, set in a triangle. He also said not to go beyond the poles. It’s death out there. The land is poison. We can’t cross.”

  She turned in her saddle, her hair flipping about her face and shoulders. “So where do we go?”

  Where to go, where to go… Armand looked to the east, looked to the west.

  “The land looks better to the east. That’s where we’ll ride.”

  “But the Ayan. If we’re not going south, they’ll catch up to us.”

  Armand wheeled Jasper around. “Yes, you silly girl, and they’ll catch us even faster if we sit here and wait. If we keep on going south, we’ll get sick and die.”

  “That might be part of the legend!” she protested.

  He pointed to the scrawny, dying plants. “Are those plants part of the legend? Are they? Enough discussion. We move.”

  Armand kicked Jasper in the flanks, and they took off. After a minute or two, he looked back and saw Melinda following, and that was the best thing Armand had seen all day.

  They rode for half a day, resting when they could, and he looked several times to the northern horizon, saw the smoke signals up beyond the rises of land. Melinda came up. “How soon before we go south?”

  Armand pointed to where another collection of skulls was standing guard on a tripod. “As soon as we stop seeing those boney smiles.”

  They started moving again, riding hard, sweat and foam speckling the flanks of both Jasper and Freedom. Armand’s hands felt frozen, his feet chilled, and the air seemed to tingle, like an approaching thunderstorm, even though the sky was a cold pale blue. To the south as they rode was a hill of stone and sand, with small saplings and brush. Armand turned again, saw more smoke, and he was going to say something to Melinda, when Jasper collapsed and fell to the ground, tossing him off. Armand hit the ground hard, his back and the rear of his head thudding to the prairie land, and Jasper set off a scream that seared right through him.

  Armand rolled and got up, head and back throbbing. Melinda quickly rode back. “Did you hear it? Did you hear the gunshot?”

  He looked up at the nearest rise, saw a horseman sitting there, rifle in hand. “Go! Get the hell out of here! Up on that hill! Now!”

  “But you –--“

  “I can take care of myself, damn it, now ride!”

  She paused for a second, and there was another gunshot, and then she rode away, heading up to the hill. A low scream gurgled from Jasper, thrashing on the ground. Armand knelt down, saw blood flowing from his neck, saw the twisted left foreleg and the sharp whiteness of bone. He felt dead inside as he grabbed his lever-action carbine, pulled back the hammer and put the muzzle to the side of Jasper’s head.

  Crying out, tears now bursting from his eyes, Armand shot him in the head.

  His poor Jasper stopped thrashing and Armand worked quickly, stripping him of his gear and bedroll. Armand started running up the hill, panting, weeping, not wanting to look back, hearing the harsh snap of two more gunshots. Melinda came out from on top of the hill, riding down to meet him, and Armand yelled at her, “Head back, you idiot! Head back!”

  She was bent over the neck of Freedom as she rode hard to him, and then she reached down with an arm, and after a couple of clumsy attempts, Armand and his belongings were up on the rear of Freedom. The poor mare managed to trot them up to the top of the hill, Armand’s free hand around Melinda’s waist. They moved among some boulders and he got off and Melinda said, “Jasper?”

  “Dead,” he said, unslinging his rifle, moving to the rocks, grabbing the binoculars along the way.

  “How?”

  “I shot him in the head,” Armand said bitterly. “He was already shot and broke his left fore leg. I had to do what I had to do. Now you’ll have to do the same.”

  “What are you talking about, Armand?”

  Looking through his binoculars, there they were. Ayans, moving in a line, riding down the far slope. About a dozen or so.

  His mouth was very dry, and his hands started shaking, making the lever-action rifle tremble before him.

  Armand said, “Get on Freedom, and start riding south, fast and hard. I’ll give you the compass, and I’ll do my best to hold them off for as long as I can.”

  Melinda said, “The hell I will.”

  “The hell you won’t, m’lady. Go!”

  She shouted back, “But you told me that the land to the south is dangerous, poisoned by a sun bomb!”

  “And whatever poison there is preferable to what the Ayans will do to you if they capture you. Now, get going and stop arguing!”

  “Damn you, stop acting so noble!”

  “I can’t help it,” he yelled back. “Accident of birth!”

  Melinda cursed and Armand looked back, seeing the line of horseman, stretched out, now riding hard up to him. He had to act quickly, for he knew they would ride fast to outflank their little position here up on this knoll of rocks. Armand pulled back the rifle’s hammer, started aiming to the Ayan horseman on the left, and --–

  A woman’s scream snapped his head up.

  Melinda was standing on a rock, waving at the horsemen, screaming at them, screaming Ayan words, holding up something square in her hands, waving it back and forth, yelling like a banshee or windigo.

  “Damn you!” Armand yelled out. He sprang up from his hiding place, ran over to her, and tackled her legs just as gunfire erupted from the horsemen, pinging against the rocks, whistling overhead. The two of them fell in a tumble of arms and legs. Melinda fought against him and he held her by the shoulders, and yelled, “What in God’s
name were you just doing?”

  “Trying to save us, that’s what!”

  “What? Are you touched?”

  Armand got up and she sat up, reached over and coughed, pulled back the square object. He saw it was an old leather-bound book, and he pulled back the cover, fingers tingling at what Melinda had said: bound in human skin. The old pages had unfamiliar words, and sure enough, in the middle of the book, barely hanging on in the cracked binding, a photograph of a man with piercing eyes, short hair, and a square moustache.

  Melinda spat out. “Their holy book. I took it when we left the camp. I just told them, up there on the rocks, that I had the book and would destroy it if they didn’t leave us alone.”

  Armand scrambled away from her and picked up his rifle. “How did that work out? What did they just do? They tried to shoot you, you silly woman.”

  Melinda crawled over to the book. “I can try again.”

  He peeked up over the nearest boulder, Ayans riding hard and fast at them. “Too late,” and Armand pulled the trigger.

  The rifle made a satisfying boom and the stock bucked up against his shoulder, and he was thrilled to see the horseman on the far left tumble from his horse. Armand worked the lever-action, the spent cartridge spinning out, the smell of burnt gunpowder sharp and clear, and he quickly aimed to the right, to the far horseman on that side of the approaching slope. Another shot made the Ayan rear up and fall to the ground, though he didn’t think he had hit him.

  Incoming fire roared up against him, as Armand ducked and scrambled to another set of rocks. He poked his head up, snapped off two shots, and saw the Ayans had all dismounted. They were now crawling and running up the hill, coming hard to him, moving in good form. Melinda grabbed his arm. “How long?”