The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  Beyond the door, another voice joined the first, crying in desperate agony.

  Floren threw open the door. Leta half expected to walk in on a scene of torture. She had to blink in surprise.

  “Next up!” roared a voice as two writhing men were pulled from the center of the room.

  There were four dozen men crammed into the hold. Every eye was focused on what was transpiring at the center of the room. A shipping crate served as a makeshift table. Atop it sat a tin bathing basin filled to the brim with water. A jellyfish fluttered within — its knotted mess of translucent tentacles nearly filled the entire basin. Two silver coins sparkled at the bottom.

  A row of shirtless men surrounded the basin, drumming on the rim with their hands. The men took turns plunging their arms into the water, each attempting to weave a path through the brier-patch of stinging tentacles and retrieve a coin. Several men came up short, until finally one man managed to snake his hand through a hoop of tentacles. He yelled in delight and thrust his hand aloft, revealing a silver Merridian clutched between his fingers.

  The whole room exploded in a whooping cheer.

  Lieutenant Floren tried to forge a path through the throng of men, but gained little headway. When that failed, he yelled out to the admiral. “Admiral Ferrus!” His voice was lost in the uproar.

  The admiral was not difficult to spot. He was a head taller than most of the other men, and he was goading on the contestants louder than anybody else. So this is the meeting that the sentries didn’t want me to see. Leta eyed Ferrus with mild amusement.

  Ferrus, like most members of the high nobility, had hazel eyes. They peered out beneath full eyebrows and a square jaw. His brown hair was slicked back in a wavy arc, as if years of facing into the wind had permanently set his hair in that direction. He had attributes that many people would call handsome. Leta didn’t see it, but perhaps that was because he reminded her so much of her brother.

  Meriatis and Ferrus were born only a few months apart. The two were natural friends, and over the years the young admiral-to-be became a frequent guest at the palace. As a child, Meriatis always seemed to have either Ferrus or Emethius in his company. On the rare occasion when all three boys were together, they made for an unholy trio of terror.

  Playing at being alchemists, the three boys once tried to turn iron into gold. They filled half the cooking pots in the kitchen with a mixture of raw iron ore and quicksilver. Thankfully, the chef caught them in the act and put a stop to it before they filled the palace with noxious fumes. Every pot the boys touched had to be discarded, lest they accidentally poison the entire household.

  Leta remembered Ferrus as a nuisance, someone who was more likely to ruin her day than to bring a smile to her face. But now looking at Ferrus amongst his men, she had to admit there was something dashing about the admiral, something she had not detected when he was just a trifling boy playing silly games with her younger brother. Maybe it was the air of confidence he held while in the presence of his men, maybe it was the grace and certainty of his motions. These sailors actually revere him, realized Leta, as she spied man after man looking to Ferrus for approval. It reminded her of how Soldiers of the Faith regarded Meriatis before the rebellion.

  The game had reached its final prize, a lone silver coin wreathed by a nest of jellyfish tentacles. One man went for it. A tentacle fluttered a hair’s breath short of the man’s flesh, and he recoiled, coming up empty-handed. The sailors hooted at the man’s cowardice, and another contestant swooped in and collected the final coin before the man could scrounge up enough courage to try again. A moan of disappointment filtered through the packed room; the game was over, the fun was through.

  Ferrus leapt atop a table, taking on a bandy-legged stance to catch his balance. From his vantage he had a commanding view of the room. He held up a gold Merridian, dancing it from knuckle to knuckle. The flare of gold drew his men’s attention like a moth to a flame. More than a few mouths hung slack-jawed with greedy desire. When the coin reached Ferrus’s thumb he flicked it in the air, letting it sail over the heads of the contestants. It plopped into the tub, landing right on top of the jellyfish’s body. It seemed to hover near the surface of the water for a moment, then in wide floating arcs, it slowly descended through the knot of tentacles, and came to a rest against the bottom of the basin.

  The men surrounding the bathtub eyed the gold Merridian with envious eyes. Everyone wanted the coin — it represented over a month’s salary — yet no one dared to sink their hand into that viper’s nest of stinging tentacles.

  “No takers?” called Ferrus with disappointment. “Very well.” He flicked a second coin atop the jellyfish, and then a third and a forth.

  Leta had to correct her earlier assessment of the admiral. Ferrus has a bit of dash and a whole lot of arrogant swagger.

  A sailor shoved through the ranks, a thin man who was not much more than sinew and muscle. He uncorked an old bottle of spoiled wine and took a lengthy draw, filling his cheeks with the sour fluid. Leta could smell the pungent scent of vinegar from across the room. With his cheeks puffed out like a rodent and his eyes nearly bugging out of his skull, he slapped his forehead, working himself up for the challenge.

  Admiral Ferrus toasted the brave sailor with a raise of his tankard. “To the brave and the bold, the stupid and the foolhardy. I salute you!”

  “Hear, hear!” cried the men in unison.

  The thin man nodded respectfully to the admiral, then plunged his hand into the water, punching straight through the body of the jellyfish and into the tangle of stinging tentacles. A gurgling moan issued from his wine-filled throat as he grabbed the first and second coin. The muscles in his hand seized up as he tried to push his palm through a tangle of tentacles to reach the third and fourth coin. Clutching his forearm with his free hand, he forced his quivering fingers to come to a rest atop the final two coins. A look of pure madness overcame the man’s face, a mixture of ecstasy and horror. He yanked his hand from the water, pulling a web of sticky tentacles with it.

  The man’s hand and forearm were already pink and covered with spiraling lines of welts. A jet of vinegar came gushing out of the man’s mouth, soaking the inflamed flesh and dislodging the last few tentacles in the process. The vinegar didn’t seem to help with the pain. The man shrieked like a dying animal and fell to the ground, clutching at his stricken hand as if it was possessed. His fingers began to convulse and retract against his will. The gold coins fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

  The men around him hollered and cheered.

  “Hold him down,” roared Ferrus. He jumped from the table and pressed his foot firmly against the stricken sailor’s chest. Laughing heartily to himself, Ferrus unlaced his breeches and began to pee on the man’s welt-covered arm and hand. More men joined in, until their were half a dozen men pissing on the rich fool. A few moments later, the stricken sailor emerged from the throng reeking of urine and bad wine. He pumped his red hand over his head triumphantly, while he simultaneously bit into each of the four gold coins, measuring their worth with his teeth. Men rushed forward with bottles of liquor to reward the man for his bravery.

  Lieutenant Floren finally managed to push his way through to Admiral Ferrus just as the admiral was lacing up his breeches. Floren coughed loudly, catching Admiral Ferrus’s attention. “Um-hum, Admiral, you have a visitor.”

  The admiral’s eyes flared in surprise. “The Lady of the Rose!” said Ferrus. A coy smirk crossed his face, and he immediately dropped to one knee and pressed his lips against the knuckles of her pale left hand. “What an honor for you to grace us with your presence. Did you enjoy our game?”

  She glanced at the man who had collected the gold coins from the bathing tin. He was sitting atop a man’s shoulders pouring liquor down the throat of anyone who would open their mouth. This is what remains of Meriatis’s rebel army? They are more children than men, thought Leta, feeling a little disappointed. “It is nice to see that the men of the Elyim
Fleet are ever ready to defend the realm.”

  “My men have fun when they ought to have fun,” said Ferrus with a dismissive shrug. “But they are deathly grim in all other circumstance.”

  Leta envisioned the archer resting atop the mast. Yes, grim and dangerous.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” asked Ferrus, still grinning.

  “I followed a man associated with the rebellion to your dock,” said Leta, not in a mood to mince words. “He seemed bound for your ship, but he thought it wise to disappear down an alley when he noticed I was following him.”

  The smile slipped from Ferrus’s face. “We should speak in private.” He motioned toward the aft of the ship and placed a firm hand on the small of Leta’s back. “If you will?”

  The nascent fear that had been dogging her since she first set foot on the ship crept back into Leta’s mind. She looked around the room, and the crew stared back. Suddenly all of their joyful faces didn’t seem so joyful. They seemed suspicious, irritated, even angry.

  “Perhaps you should visit me in the palace,” suggested Leta, eager for a way out.

  “No, here is better,” replied Ferrus, as he pulled her along. “The palace has too many ears, too many eyes. If you and I are to speak about treason, the privacy of my ship is absolutely necessary.”

  CHAPTER

  III

  THE LORD CAPTAIN

  The soldiers quickly guided Emethius and Malrich through the levels of the city. The grim-faced men in their escort were different from the soldiers Emethius had seen lounging at the tables in the king’s great hall — these men were more tawny and wind-burnt, the type of men who did the real fighting.

  They entered an old tavern which was mostly empty save for a few drunken soldiers. The barkeep and patrons hardly lifted an eye when Malrich and Emethius were shoved through the parlor. They were taken straight to the building’s cellar. The wooden stairs creaked from rot, and the air was heavy, smelling of mold.

  “I’m not going down there,” protested Malrich at the top of the landing, putting forth one final effort at resistance. It resulted in him being thrown down the entire flight of stairs.

  Emethius dragged Malrich to his feet.

  “Sit,” instructed Sir Bilis, pointing to a pair of overturned casks set in the center of the room. Firm hands made sure they complied with the direction.

  The cellar served as a storage chamber, and casks of wine and beer were stacked on either wall. A group of men stood at the far end of the cellar. They were staring intently at a piece of parchment laid flat over the top of a barrel. They spoke quietly for several minutes, until finally, the man who appeared to be their leader excused himself and approached Emethius and Malrich with a staggered gait.

  The man was not any older than Emethius, but he carried himself with an air of authority that Emethius lacked. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, which he wore unbuttoned and open. The eagle crest of House Langlif could be spied upon his surcoat. His braided hair was dark, almost brown. Hazel eyes gleamed from beneath his furrowed brow. He is of royal stock, at least by some measurement, Emethius surmised. A nephew or grandson of the king most likely.

  “These are our visitors from Merridia, my lord,” said Sir Bilis, giving both Emethius and Malrich a rough pat on the shoulder.

  Without saying a word, the young lord turned Emethius’s head from side to side, examining the skin of his neck. He did not seem pleased by what he discovered.

  The bastard is checking my neck for a transfuser scar, Emethius realized. Most healers had one from the test they took as a child.

  “You’re a master healer, right?” The lord rolled back the cuff of his left pant leg, revealing a deep scar in his calf. There was an entrance wound on one side, and an exit wound on the other. “A Cul archer hit my leg a few months ago. Lucky for me, the arrow wasn’t poisoned. Still, I would prefer not to walk with a halt for the rest of my life. I want you to heal my leg.”

  “I would be happy to help,” began Emethius, struggling to stay calm. His heart was beating so hard, he was surprised no one else could hear it. “But there are certain evaluations that must be performed before a transfusion can occur. I must inspect you for signs of the Blackheart. It can be a lengthy and tiring process, but these are the rules of my order.”

  “Ah, you don’t know me. That’s a good excuse. Quick thinking.” The lord tapped at his head. “But you know him, right?” He unsheathed his blade and pressed the edge to Malrich’s neck. Malrich tried to draw away, but Sir Bilis held him firmly in place. “If I slice open your companion’s throat do you think you could heal him before he bleeds to death?”

  Emethius tried to keep the panic from showing in his face. “I’d prefer you not injure my leech boy. A good one is quite hard to come by.”

  The lord grinned. “There’s a bit of cheek in you. I can appreciate that, even from a liar.” He kept his knife pressed against Malrich’s neck. “Let me make my position clear; I believe you told King Iantir the truth when you claimed to be from Merridia. Based on your accents, I would wager you two came from the coastal southlands.” He pulled at the sleeve of Emethius’s fox fur cloak. “I also know you are not a healer, although your disguise is authentic. Did you kill the master healer who owned this?”

  “No,” said Emethius, although in his heart he wondered if that was a lie. Ftoril had left the healer bound in a cave. “The cloak belonged to my uncle. I inherited it from him when he died. I hoped the cloak would grant us a certain degree of protection as we traveled the North Road. In Merridia, master healers are still held in high regard. I can see that this is no longer the case in Dunis.”

  “An unlikely story,” said the lord.

  “You can’t kill us for an unlikely story,” challenged Malrich brusquely.

  “Oh, I can kill you,” said the lord with an unsettling degree of certainty. “You’re a fat ingrate of no importance. It’s your companion I’m not so sure about. He might be somebody, or he might be nobody. Here it is, your last chance to tell the truth, then we’ll see how good you are at suturing up a throat.” He jabbed the edge of his blade into Malrich’s neck, drawing blood.

  Emethius saw no other path forward. “Put away your blade,” blurted Emethius, raising his hands in the air. “My name really is Emethius. My companion’s name really is Malrich. That much we told King Iantir in truth. I will happily tell you the rest, but before I do, I must know who you are.”

  The lord chuckled quietly. “I like a man who barters when he has nothing to offer.” He rose to his full height and smacked the eagle emblem embroidered on his surcoat with the flat of his dagger. “I am Ianin Langlif, son of Lord Serin, grandson of King Iantir, and Lord Captain of the Dunie.” He was clearly proud of his lineage.

  “That would explain the eyes,” said Emethius. He was only somewhat informed about the House of Langlif, but he knew Serin was King Iantir’s eldest son. “I am Captain Emethius Lunen of the Second Legion and Master of Greenstone Manor. Lieutenant Malrich is my second in command.”

  “Hmm. So I was right about your accent. You’re a couple of Henna Lu boys. Do you serve under Praetor Maxentius’s banner?”

  “Yes, but we have ventured west on our own private business.”

  “Go on.” Ianin’s knife was still out, but at least he was no longer holding it against Malrich’s neck.

  To tell more was a risk, but this journey was a gamble from the start. “There is a rumor in my land that there is a healer of the Blackheart in the west.”

  “Then you need to look no further,” said Ianin with a grin. “For I carry the cure to the Blackheart in my hand.” He waved the dagger in Emethius’s face.

  “So your men have been keen on telling us,” began Emethius. “But our destination lies much farther west. The Cultrator. It is a journey fraught with danger, but I have a friend who is worth it. I assumed my disguise would grant us safe passage as far as the Stygian Mines. We did not know that the Barren Tracks had fallen.”

&
nbsp; Lord Ianin sheathed his blade and stood in silence for a moment, thumbing at his chin. Finally he motioned to one of his men. “Bring me a chair, I now have something to talk to these men about.” A stool was brought immediately.

  “The Cul hit the Stygian Mines first,” explained Ianin, as he took a seat. “My father rallied the garrison and for several days they managed to keep the enemy contained. The Cul would attack at night in groups of ten to twenty. They were probing for weakness, testing every gate, checking the range of every watchtower. A messenger reached Hardthorn on the fifth day of the siege. A quarter of the garrison was dead, another quarter was injured, but the gate still stood. The sixth day came and no message. The seventh, the eighth, and the ninth were no different. On the tenth day we lost contact with Interleads. Over the course of the next week only a handful of survivors managed to limp down from the mountain pass.”

  “Was your father, er..., Lord Serin, amongst them?” asked Emethius.

  “He was last seen holding off the Cul advance at the Sun Gate.” There was a glimmer of pride in Ianin’s eyes as he recounted his father’s final act of bravery. “King Iantir summoned every able-bodied man in Dunis to muster at Hardthorn. Men came from as far away as Westhorn and Terra Falls. I advised my grandfather to delay, to await the coming of spring and the lengthening of the day, but no sensible words would sway his heart.

  “My grandfather marched his army into the Barren Tracks while there was still snow on the ground. Worse still, the fog had not yet lifted from the mountain pass. We were ambushed before we even reached Interleads. It was a slaughter. A tenth of the men were lost. Twice that number were injured. Not even my grandfather was safe. The Cul tried to drag him into one of their tunnels. I rushed to his aid, but by the time I fought the cull off, the demons had plucked out both of his eyes.

  “King Iantir was led back to Hardthorn by a rope. Most men would sooner die than live through such a disgrace. My grandfather is a broken man. All of his sons are dead, and what last shred of honor he possessed has been lost. So while he sits upon the throne in Reel Aper, his men come to me for orders. Thus the task of saving this land now falls squarely upon my shoulders.” Tears glinted in Lord Ianin’s eyes, and he took a moment to gather himself before continuing.