by Greg Curtis
In the end though, he thought, he wasn't unhappy in his life. It was simply that sometimes it was a little harder than he liked. And despite being a brewer he didn't like the smell of hops.
The sound of horses' hooves thumping on the ground outside his brewery brought Hendrick out of his reverie as he realised the Royal guards had arrived to escort him to the Capital City. It was the King's wedding – his tenth – and as his son, however far removed from the throne as he was and despite being afflicted, he was required to attend.
This time it was to a woman younger than Hendrick. Ten years younger! Sana of Mirrion was eighteen and his father was closer to eighty. In his opinion it was indecent. By the gods, it was embarrassing! But that was his father. Every few years he got a few years older and married a wife a few years younger!
The King claimed it was because he was a devout follower of Pritarma – the Goddess of Love. His mother said it was because he was a lecherous old goat! Either way it wasn't as if a Royal wedding was anything special anymore. They had happened so often now. Still, Hendrick was expected to attend which was why the soldiers were outside. He was to be given an escort back to the city.
He wasn't quite sure why he had been sent an escort. Because he was the King's heir, however distant from the throne, and it was considered a display of appropriate respect? Or because he had been afflicted with magic and was considered dangerous? He had never been sent an escort before. In the past he had simply been sent a letter requiring him to attend. He had made his own way to the city, where he had announced himself, and then had been escorted through the city by a couple of soldiers to attend the wedding, and then left soon after. One thing he was sure of though, was that he was expected to go with them. To not attend his father's wedding would have been taken as an insult. A stain on the Mountforth name.
Hendrick had attended all of his father's other weddings. They were generally a harmless waste of time though they did allow him to do a little shopping in the city. Styrion Might had a far greater selection of wares than Burbage. And he could see his mother again, though that normally meant a stilted conversation over tea and sweet pastries. He might see his brother – though that would only be from a distance. He suspected that his mother was worried his affliction might rub off on Myka. And he'd never met Myka's wife, Ells, or their children. Maybe he finally would.
Hendrick supposed this would be his father’s last wedding. He was nearly eighty now. How many more could he have? Even being a follower of Pritarma the Goddess of Love – or a lecherous old goat – he had his limits. And surely ten wives had to be enough? The next time he was summoned to the city Hendrick suspected, it would be for his father's funeral. He wondered how many more brothers and sisters he would have before then.
Hendrick shouted at the waiting soldiers that he was coming and started bending his back a little more, putting a little more effort into his work as he flung pitchfork after pitchfork of the hops up into the tower above his head. Once this was done he knew he would be finished with his work in the ost house for a while and could spend the next few days or weeks away.
A few more minutes of hard work saw the last of the hops into the drying tower, and he was able to slam the ceiling hatch shut and hurry outside.
On exiting the building however, Hendrick was surprised to find that they weren't the King’s soldiers calling for him. These soldiers didn't wear his colours. There was no red and gold. There was no dragon pennant flying above their heads. They looked like mercenaries. For a moment he stood outside the ost house, wondering just what was happening.
“Are you Prince Hendrick, the seventeenth son of King Orston,” the leader of the group asked?
“Yes”, replied Hendrick unthinkingly, and then watched in disbelief as the man suddenly pulled out his pistol.
“Dung!” Everything happened in a heartbeat. Hendrick's blood all but froze on the spot as he watched the barrel of the gun line up with his face, instinctively tried to duck, and then took a long step to the right. At some point he heard the pistol fire even while the world blurred all around him.
A heartbeat later Hendrick was standing perhaps thirty or forty paces behind the soldiers, who in turn were still sitting there on their horses staring at the spot he had been a moment before. No doubt they were feeling somewhat confused. Meanwhile Hendrick was suffering from his own form of shock as he realised that these men had just tried to kill him!
Hendrick couldn't quite seem to make that understanding real. Because it couldn't be real. But as his heart hammered in his chest and his lungs burnt with fear he understood that it didn't matter. They had tried to kill him and they were going to keep trying. Only his spell had saved him. And it wouldn't save him for long.
Most people knew he was afflicted. They could see the traceries of the magic metals running along the veins of his left arm if nothing else, and they knew that metal ran through his blood. But few knew the actual spells he had. They didn't care. Most spells were of no practical worth. When he had long stepped he supposed that to them it would have looked as if he'd vanished.
He hadn't. He'd simply taken a long step where one of his steps became many. At the same time that the world had blurred around him, he would have become a blur to them. But there were limits to the magic, as there were limits to all things. Had he been out in the open with clear ground all around and no obstacles, he could have made one step become a thousand. But he couldn't step through obstacles. So he'd been stopped only fifty or so paces away where the fence bordered his land. Already some of the men were turning around. A moment later one of them saw him and called to the others.
Panicking, Hendrick turned and long stepped again, heading for the side of his house, which was about seventy paces away from the oast house. He could have climbed over the fence and long stepped much further away, but clambering over the fence would have been slow and he was sure he would have been shot before he was able to long step again.
Another desperate long step after that brought him around the back of the house. It bought him a few seconds more time. Though only a few because he could hear the sound of gunfire, no doubt aimed at where he had just been. A few heartbeats later he heard the sound of men yelling at their horses, followed by the sound of hooves beating into the hard ground. They were coming for him!
It was then that he realised he was trapped. His property was completely fenced, limiting the distance he could long step. And there were a dozen riders heading for him. Soon they would have him surrounded and no amount of long stepping would save him.
Another panicked long step brought him to the back of the ost house, and its rear door, and this time at least he knew he hadn’t been seen. They could not even have seen him blur since there had had been a building between them. It bought him a few extra seconds to step inside the ost house and then slide the bar shut behind him. After that he did the same with the main front doors, before finally collapsing on the ground by the vats and breathing heavily as he tried to make sense of everything.
But all he really understood was that these soldiers were trying to kill him. Why?
Just then though he slowly realised, it didn’t really matter why. All that mattered was not getting killed.
Quickly Hendrick found a hiding spot among the vats and barrels and tried to calm his breathing and tell himself he was safe. But even though he knew his safety was only temporary, his panick wouldn't let him think. He had at most a few minutes before they would come inside. For whatever reason they had come to kill him and they weren't going to stop until he was dead. It was madness. Vitanna's Drunken Mist had settled on the world, and left him reeling. And still he couldn't seem to work out what to do.
He had to do something! But instead of making a plan as he should he ended up crouching there, shaking with fear and shock, his thoughts spiralling out of control. It was only when a few moments later he heard the door being shaken that he broke free from his shock.
Without thinking Hendrick summoned a spectr
al panther to protect him. It was the most dangerous of the spells he had. But it was a mistake. Because while summoning the creature was easy, commanding the creature was harder. And the instant the panther appeared in front of him he knew he might have just made a mistake that would kill him.
In an instant he was plunged into a battle of wills with the beast, and this one he knew he couldn't afford to lose as the cat would kill him in a heartbeat if he did. He had to be in command. He had to be the master. Because the spectral cat desperately wanted to tear him to pieces. Normally commanding it would be easy. But normally he wasn't shaking with fear. And the panther knew he was afraid. It didn't care that he was afraid of the soldiers, not it. Only that he feared. And as fear was weakness it would not obey. It did not want to be commanded by someone weak. So it fought him and Hendrick had no choice but to fight back.
It took every scrap of will he had to control his fear and force the beast to accept his command. And it was made all the harder knowing that there were several men outside and hearing them beating against the main doors, knowing that soon they too would be inside and looking to kill him.
Yet somehow he managed it. Eventually he managed to get the cat to yield to his will and take his commands. Just quickly enough that by the time the soldiers had started ramming the door with something heavy, he had the spectral panther standing in position behind it, waiting to attack whoever appeared in the doorway once it was down. Nothing the men had would protect them from a beast made of moonlight and mithril. With claws that could shred steel and teeth that could puncture armour to get at the soft flesh inside it was unstoppable.
About a minute later the bar splintered and the doors swung open to reveal a pair of men carrying a log they'd found somewhere outside the oast house. No sooner had the doors opened then the panther was on them.
The men’s screams of terror were cut terrifyingly short as the spectral panther opened them up with its claws. And even as they fell to the ground, their chests washing the floor with blood, the cat leapt out to attack the others, snarling in fury as blood dripped from its jaws.
Hendrick heard more men screaming, followed by gun shots and the sound of horses whinnying in terror. The men had no defence against the panther. Not only were they slow and weak, but even if their shots had managed to hit the cat they would have simply passed through it. It was made of moonlight after all.
Hendrick remained behind the vats until the last of the screams died away, not daring to move a muscle. Though a warrior might have joined the fray, he had no such training. He couldn't swing a sword or fire a musket. He could scarcely throw a punch. And he didn't have a weapon. The priests who had raised him had not been ones who believed in teaching violence to children in their care. The Benevolent One did not encourage fighting. And truthfully it had never seemed important. No one had ever tried to kill him before.
He stayed in his hiding place for quite some time. He knew the survivors would have scattered as they fled and that the cat could not chase them all at once. But it would hunt them all down. That he knew. Unless and until he released it and let it return to its own realm, the beast would obey his commands. It would not stop until it had killed them all.
Eventually silence returned to the world and the cat trotted back in, happily licking its blood covered ghostly lips. It was not a sight that Hendrick really wanted to see. But at least it meant that the battle was over and there was no further need for the big cat. Quickly he sent the beast back to its own realm.
A few minutes later he finally summoned the courage to stand up and wander over to the two soldiers who had broken the door down. One was dead, lying in a pool of blood and staring sightlessly at the roof. The other was gasping his last. But even as Hendrick knelt beside him he knew the man would tell him nothing. He couldn't. The chances were that he wasn't even aware that Hendrick was standing beside him.
Hendrick stood back up, kicked away the pistols of the two soldiers, and then their swords. After that he walked outside to be greeted by a scene of complete horror. At least a dozen men were down, and all of them were bathed in blood. So too were some of their horses. A couple of the soldiers were moving weakly, but he guessed it was little more than involuntary spasms. They would be dead soon enough. Their wounds were too serious for a physician to treat. Only someone with a specific healing spell could save them. Someone with the magic of life that was bestowed from Illuminium. Hendrick had three spells and they were all Mithril based. Exotic magic. Otherworldly magic. Not life magic.
The smell of smoke brought Hendrick’s head up and he turned toward his house only to discover that it had been set alight. Why? That was his home!
Desperately he ran to the well and cranked the handle and started filling buckets of water which he then ran to the fire with. But it soon became obvious that the fire was beyond him. He was just too slow. No matter how hard he cranked or how fast he ran, he simply couldn't stop the flames. In fact with every bucket he tossed on the fire it seemed that the flames just burnt higher.
After only five or ten minutes of exhausting work, he gave up. By then the flames had reached the roof and he knew that his house was lost.
If only he'd had water magic spells he might have been able to save the house. But those spells were bestowed on a man by Crystallite. None of that perfectly blue magic metal flowed in his blood either.
Hendrick could have wept as he watched his home go up in flames, and he cursed the dead soldiers for it. He cursed the Goat Footed God too. Because if this had been caused by anything it had to be the misfortune spread by S'bet. It had taken him six months to build his home. Six months of sweat and every styne he could earn as he had to buy timbers and nails and tools without end it had seemed! It had also cost him any number of finger nails as he had regularly hammered them by mistake. And they had simply burnt it down! Why? None of it made any sense.
Instead of wasting his time pondering questions for which he had no answers, Hendrick quickly wandered over to the nearest of the bodies and started gathering up the soldiers’ weapons. If by some chance one of them was still alive and well enough to use his pistol or musket, he didn't want to be shot. Especially not after he'd won the battle – that would be bitterly ironic.
When he reached the leader's body though, he stopped. There was no danger any more from the man. He was clearly dead. But he was carrying a small, leather cylinder – the type that was used to hold papers – and Hendrick was immediately curious. After all, he still didn't know who these people were or why they'd attacked him. Perhaps there was something in the cylinder that would answer those questions?
Carefully Hendrick levered the cylinder away from the man, cutting the strap by which it hung over the man's shoulder, and then pulled it free of him. And he made especially sure not to get any of the man's blood on him. Just the sight of it made him feel queasy. It made him feel guilty too, and he constantly had to remind himself that it could have been his blood. It very nearly had been.
Inside the cylinder he found a warrant for his death signed by the Chief Magistrate for the realm of Styrion, and the feeling of disbelief returned. Hendrick read it again, unable to believe his eyes. He had been officially condemned to death!
There was no actual reason given for the death warrant. He hadn't been accused of a crime as far as he could tell, let alone been convicted of anything. But for all he knew that was perfectly normal with warrants. What wasn't normal was that he had committed no crime. He had not been tried let alone convicted of anything. And he was the King's son, however distant he might be from the throne! He was a Prince of the realm! Somehow he couldn't imagine that the Chief Magistrate would dare to place a death warrant on his head without the blessing of the King.
Had his father called for his head? Or was this political? Was the Chief Magistrate suddenly choosing to work against the King – perhaps for a rival to the throne? Or was Daylon finally making his move – though why he would bother having him killed Hendrick couldn't guess. Daylo
n's mother Marda might, purely out of spite. If she thought his death would upset his mother in the least, she would cheerfully have him gutted. Unfortunately, Hendrick knew his own mother wouldn't have cared at all and Marda knew that.
Neither option seemed likely. He couldn't imagine that his father wanted him dead. He barely knew him. Besides which it was hard for him to think of a motive. He had never caused any trouble or embarrassment. And what parent would murder his own child in cold blood? But the Magistrate wouldn't dare execute him without the King's express command.
All the officials in the kingdom were intensely loyal to the King – they were appointed to their positions on that basis. And they would know that to go against the King was to put their own heads in the hangman's noose.