The Noble Prince (The Empire of the North)

by Brendan DuBois

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Damn it woman, get moving! Get on Freedom and get the hell out of here!”

  Her eyes were wet. “You got me out of that hell back there, and I’m not leaving you, Armand.”

  “Melinda --–“

  “The two of us,” she said. “The two of us can ride out.”

  “No,” Armand napped back. “Won’t work. That will slow your horse down, having the two of us on him. The Ayan will come up here, get the high ground, and pick us both off in seconds. Woman, will you stop arguing and get going?”

  Melinda said, “I’m not arguing, you are. Damn you, Armand, keep on shooting, will you? Or do you want to keep arguing with me with Ayans all about us?”

  Stubborn as she was, she was right. Armand crawled back to the rocks, snapped off two more shots, and then he saw something that angered and stirred him at the same time. Melinda went over to Freedom, stripped her of saddle and gear, and then slapped her on the rump, giving her a way out from being captured by the Ayans. Melinda crawled up next to Armand, bandolier in hand. “I’ll give you cartridges when you need them. That’s enough talk about me leaving. It’s settled now.”

  “I’ll need them soon,” he said, as he fired off another round. Armand felt a sharp sense of pleasure, seeing an Ayan tumble back, hearing his painful yells, for Armand was sure that Ayan had been the one who had shot Jasper.

  Melinda said, “Whatever you do, don’t surrender, all right?”

  Armand paused. The Ayans had gone to ground in the grass. He couldn’t see them, but he could see their horses, standing at a distance away, waiting for their masters to return after their bloody work.

  “How’s that?”

  Melinda was weeping, but her voice was hard and clear. “You do what you have to do to defend us. But Armand. When the time comes, I will not go back to them. You will save one cartridge for me. And you will do it. Do you understand?”

  Armand grabbed her arm. “There’s still time, damn you. Get going!”

  She shook her head. “I won’t leave you. I won’t. Now get back to your gunplay, noble.”

  He turned back, fired off two more shots down the slope. Answering fire came sputtering back up at them, along with some shouts and yells. What Melinda had just said burned inside of him, knowing that she was right, that he would not allow her to be re-captured. Armand thought of her bravery, and thought of himself. Would he be that brave, when the time came, to save just one cartridge or two?

  The grass before him moved. Armand fired again.

  After a while he said, “How many cartridges?”

  She quickly ran her fingers over the bandoliers. “About forty, Armand.”

  Forty, he thought.

  Armand glanced up at the sky. The sun was nearing the horizon. An hour, perhaps less, before dusk approached.

  “Maybe… just maybe,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’ll be dark soon. If we’re very careful, very lucky, we might be able to slip off this hill. We’ll have to leave most of our equipment behind and -–“

  More shots.

  Armand got up, returned fire, and there was a whistle and a crack and he fell back, his left shoulder throbbing, on fire, like a spear of molten lead had just hit him.

  Melinda was over him, eyes wide with concern. He coughed and looked up. “How bad?”

  “Bad,” she said.

  “You… you know how to use the rifle?”

  “I’m a lousy shot, Armand. I truly am.”

  Armand coughed again, moved his left arm, nearly screamed at the pain throbbing through. He reached up with his other arm. “Help me up. Get the rifle.”

  Using both of her hands, Melinda pulled him up by his right arm. He gritted his teeth, now on his knees. She got the rifle and Armand said, “Work the lever-action. All right?”

  She did that, expelling a spent cartridge. Armand took the rifle, wormed his way up to two boulders, nearly touching each other, and laid the barrel down between them. Movement, out there in the grass, and just a few score meters away. Damn close. There seemed to be a buzzing or throbbing noise out there, something that echoed in his head, like the shot that had knocked him down was still there, keeping the sound alive.

  Armand pulled the trigger. The rifle stock bucked against his shoulder, causing lights to appear behind his eyes as the pain throbbed through his left arm. “Quickly, now, work the action, give it back to me.”

  She took the rifle from his grasp, worked the action, and put it back in his good arm. Armand fired quickly again, as the movement out there increased.

  The action stuck open.

  Empty.

  Armand took a breath. “Take the cartridges. See the opening, there on the side? Insert a cartridge, one at a time, the pointy-end first. Quickly, now.”

  Melinda bent over and worked quickly, even though he could see her hands were shaking. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his left arm, tried to focus on the rifle, on Melinda’s work, and then she said, “I can’t put any more in.”

  “It’s full,” Armand said, “Work the lever action now, m’lday. We’re ready to keep on fighting, my warrior princess.”

  She was weeping again, as she gave Armand the rifle. She kissed him on the lips, and Armand stole a quick kiss back. “What did you say, earlier, about songs being sung about me in the north?” she asked.

  Armand put the rifle down on the rocks, aimed at the figures, pulled the trigger. Another sharp report, and more return fire whistled back at them. He ducked and as she took the rifle from his weakening right arm, Armand said, “Oh, yes, songs and chants and tales about your bravery, Melinda.”

  She quickly worked the action, got it back to him. “No one will know what happened here, how you fought here for me.”

  “How we fought together,” Armand said, correcting her. “You and I will know it forever, and that’s what counts.”

  The Ayans were closer. Armand could hear them calling to each other. He looked back and forth, knowing they were just minutes away from being outflanked. They had a fair amount of cartridges left, but with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew they’d never get to where they only had two shots left.

  “Armand! Over there!”

  He rolled over and an Ayan was running at them, sword in hand, and with one wavering arm, Armand held up the rifle and shot him. The bullet struck him in the throat and he coughed and gurgled and fell to the ground, and Melinda scampered over, grabbed his sword and came back to Armand. Ayans were suddenly all there, coming over the rocks, chanting, singing and laughing. Armand struggled with the lever-action, as something loud blew up about him, a light burning his eyes, Melinda screaming, and more booms and the sharp cracks and all went dark.

  Chapter Four

  At some point there was talking, murmuring, the sound of machinery. Armand could smell things burning. Even though he couldn’t understand the language, he could sense surprise in somebody’s voice. Armand tried to talk and then something was jabbed in his arm, and all was black again.

  Some time later Armand realized he was motionless. Everything was wrong. He kept his eyes closed. Not wanting to open them, not wanting to see what was near him, not wanting to see anything.

  But his eyes had a life of their own.

  Armand opened them up and cried out, not in fear, but in surprise.

  He was in a bed. He was in a room. He was alive.

  Armand closed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming, and then opened them again.

  The room was small but the bed was comfortable. There were no windows. Just two doors, and three chairs of an unfamiliar design, on a dull yellow tile floor. A tube ran into his left arm and there were wires coming out as well, leading up to a square blue box on a stand, which also held a clear plastic bag. He was dressed in light blue pajamas. Armand moved his legs, feeling them rub up against smooth sheets, the best sheets he had felt since… God, since his last night at Maison de la Cloutier, so many lifetimes ag
o. Armand gingerly moved his left arm, felt a dull ache, but nothing like when he had been wounded.

  Armand licked his dry lips. At the side of the bed was a small table with a jug of water. He poured the water into a cup made of cardboard, and the water tasted so cold and sweet that he couldn’t believe it. Armand drank half of the jug and sat back. On one wall was an old oil portrait of a man, wearing a type of military uniform, with a kindly look about his face. He was nearly bald.

  The door opened.

  A woman with dark black skin came in, smiling. She had on a uniform similar to the one in the portrait, but still, it was a uniform Armand had never seen before. It was mottled gray, black and green. Her boots were black, and on one side of her chest was her name, he believed: DONAHUE. There were markings on the collars of her uniform blouse and down its center.

  She said something, and Armand strained his ears, trying to understand her. He could only make out a few words. It was a form of Franglish or Anglish, but he couldn’t quite comprehend. Armand gave her his best smile. “I’m sorry, madam, but I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  She cocked her head, smiled again, and held up a finger. She went out the door and then a few minutes later, another woman came in, older, with the same dark skin. Her nametag said JOHNSON. She had something small in her hands and she walked over and said slowly, “Do you understand what I’m saying?” in very heavily accented Franglish.

  “Yes, yes, I do,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Johnson smiled again and held up a hand. “Just… just speak slowly and clearly, all right?”

  “Sure,” Armand said, looking around the room. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the medical wing of Fort McGee.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You were fighting the Ayan, were you not?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked down at the object in her hand. “Then we rendered assistance. Standingorders.”

  “Excuse me?” Armand asked.

  “Standingorders,” she said, making it sound like one word, as she looked at the portrait on the wall. “We always give assistance to those fighting the Ayan.”

  “My companion. A woman named Melinda. Is she here? Is she all right?”

  Johnson had a small stick or stylus that she was using to mark on the object in her hand. He had no idea what it was. “She’s here on base but she’s not a patient.”

  Armand felt relief just flow right through him, like a wide and wonderful river. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  She put a hand on his forehead, then checked the bandages on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right, I guess. My left shoulder is aching.”

  “It should, considering what happened to you.”

  “Was I shot?”

  “No, you weren’t,” Johnson said. “It appears a stone fragment struck you. Perhaps from a bullet hitting a boulder or rock formation. Is that possible?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “The damage wasn’t too severe. Are you hungry?”

  Armand hadn’t thought of it, but her words seemed to burrow right into his stomach. “Yes, very much so.”

  She smiled. “I’ll have a meal sent up, right away. But you have to stay still, all right? You’re our patient here. After you eat, one of our officers will conduct an interview. Standingorders. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do… and thank you again.”

  Then the smile on her face faltered. “Don’t thank me now. Thank me later if your interview goes well. In the meantime, your name, please? For our records?”

  “Armand de la Cloutier.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Toronto, Empire of the Nunavut.”

  “Empire of the… oh. I know what you mean.”

  But Armand was no longer hearing her. Armand was staring at the object in her hand. There was a little screen on the object, a screen that flickered and showed letters and images. Every time she touched the screen with her stylus, something on the screen changed. Armand found it hard to believe but there it was. She had one of the machines that the old ones used before the War of the World, and it was working!

  The damn thing was working!

  Armand recalled the chunks of machinery seen at that castle, and the bins of similar machinery and parts, being worked over by Churchill Grace. All those electronics, dead for centuries, lifeless, the innards burnt out and made useless by the sun bombs.

  But here, the damn thing was working!

  Then Johnson turned to leave, and then it all made sense, and the surprise and shock Armand had felt earlier doubled in intensity. There was a patch on her shoulder, of a flag or shield, something he did not recognize, but which was clear enough: a rectangle, with some bars, and a square ensign in one corner, sprinkled with stars.

  Sprinkled with stars.

  Johnson left with a smile and closed the door behind her, and now it all made sense.

  They were real.

  Armand and Melinda had been rescued by the Starmen.

  In a while there was a soft knock on the door, and a younger woman came in, wearing the same kind of uniform, holding a tray with a cover over it. She pulled a table on wheels over to him, and put the tray down, gave Armand a quick nod, and then walked out. There was a hard plastic cover, and Armand lifted it off and --–

  The smells went through his nostrils and barreled right to his stomach. There was a large bowl of chicken soup with thick noodles, chunks of white bread with butter, a glass of milk, a small salad, and a mug of tea. He started eating and forced himself to eat slow and carefully, not wanting to devour everything in thirty seconds, for that’s what he felt like doing, as he ate the best meal he had since… since…

  Since Toronto.

  Armand put the spoon down, tears rolling down his cheeks, thinking of his father, thinking of his time in the camp, the lost gentle souls of Martel and Jasper, and oh so very much.

  But Armand didn’t cry for long.

  The food was just too tempting.

  After a while everything was finished, even to the point where he took a piece of white bread and wiped the soup bowl clean –- thinking with a wry smile that Mother would have chastised him for awful table manners, back in the day --- and with the table pushed away, he realized he had to find a WC.

  But where?

  Armand noted the other door, and he sat up, his head just spinning. Then he let his legs go over the side. The metal stand with the blue box and clear plastic bag had wheels on the bottom. He looked to the door. Doable, very doable. Armand got up and grasped the stand, and his legs wobbled some but he was standing up.

  Good enough, he thought. Good enough. Armand shuffled slowly to the rear door, and yes, it was a WC, and Armand left the door open as he used the flush toilet, the first flush toilet since --–

  There was a mirror in the WC.

  A mirror.

  He slowly stood up and looked at the stranger looking back. Sunken eyes, gaunt cheekbones and a wisp of a moustache and chin whiskers. He ran a hand across his face. Armand had never seen himself like this. The face looked old, even older than the memory of his own father’s face. He gently ran his fingers across the weathered skin and whispered, “Old top, you surely have been through a lot.”

  He flushed the toilet and went back to bed.

  In the comfort of the sheets and soft mattress and somewhat full belly, Armand fell asleep. He woke up with a start when the door opened up and a small man with an angry face came in. Like the others, he had on the unusual uniform, and his nametag said HINDERLINE. In his hands he had a soft leather briefcase. He nodded and came in and said, his voice only slightly accented, “My name is Major Hinderline. Intelligence. Are you ready to answer some questions?”

  “Absolutely, monsieur,” Armand said. He pointed to the tray. “Thanks for the meal. It was the best I’ve had in a very long time.”

  “Good,” he said, his voice displaying a tone that he coul
d really give a crap whether or not Armand had liked the meal. Armand’s back stiffened and something began to tickle at the base of his neck. The soldier’s manner and bearing… this was Jacques Templair’s relative, cousin or brother or uncle, it didn’t matter, but the look was just the same. He wanted information, and didn’t care how he got it.

  Suddenly the meal wasn’t so good after all.

  Hinderline sat down and opened up his briefcase, took out a small object, similar to the one the nurse had carried. Armand stared at it, still fascinated. Hinderline worked a stylus or stick on the object and said, “I’ve read the medical report from Lieutenant Johnson, and the after-action report from the armored squad that rescued you and your companion.”

  “We were rescued?”

  He nodded. “You don’t remember?”

  “No… the last thing I recall is shooting at the Ayans, up on that hill. There were lights, explosions, and here I am. What happened?”

  Hinderline said, “We were doing surveillance of the blast area.”

  “Where the sun bomb hit?”

  He looked confused. “Oh. Right. Slang. Sun bomb. Whatever you like to call it, it’s our area of responsibility to survey that place. It used to be a Minuteman base. Our aerial platform saw a number of Ayans in action. Luckily for you, we had an armored squad in the area. We transmitted your location to them, they laid down suppressing fire and rescued you and your companion.”

  “Luck.” Armand thought that was a pretty weak word for what had happened.

  “Oh, yes, lucky for you. Not so lucky for the Ayan.”

  “Were they all killed?”

  He offered a tiny smile, looked up at the portrait on the wall, just like the other officer had done. “Yes. We don’t take prisoners when it comes to the Ayan. Standingorders.”

  There, that phrase again. Standingorders.

  “But your luck didn’t end there, boy. You see, our resources are limited, have always been limited, and we do what we can. For years and years. Once we killed those Ayan, you should have been left behind. Standingorders. We can’t help everyone. That’s been our biggest burden here at Ft. McGee for many, many years. Our fathers, our grandfathers, all of us over the years have borne that burden. But when the action was completed, we searched you and your companion. From you, we found this.”