3 Dead Princes: An Anarchist Fairy Tale

by Danbert Nobacon

  While the waters were deceptively clear this side of the Falls, they were as deep as a man was tall. The closer the rock path veered to the edge of the Falls, the deeper the water covering them became. It was in truth impossible to cross even without the psykologickal fear of being swept over the edge.

  Nine stones out into the water meant she was considerably closer to the edge of the Falls than she was to the bank. Stormy halted, the irresistible current now buffeting her ankles. Gasping for breath, she turned and saw Braggardio step from the bank onto the first of the submerged stones.

  She could see the hate in his face, and she could see the apprehension creeping across his brow. Braggardio cautiously made his way on to the third rock. More cautiously still, he made his way across the next three rocks, wavering on the last, as his lead foot slipped a finger-length under the water.

  He regained his footing, but as a man six and a half feet tall, his center of balance made him a mite more unstable than Stormy. It isn’t always best to be biggest.

  “Such a sweet pretty thing, but you will die, Princess,” shouted the Prince, trying to regain the initiative. “Think your prophecy will save you now, girl?”

  How did he know about the prophecy? Did everyone know about it? But Stormy forced herself to concentrate. She didn’t think the prophecy would save her. She didn’t know if she could be saved, and she had no idea what came next in her non-existent plan. Would that she were like her namesake Alexena, and could trick the man to his death.

  Braggardio advanced one, two … more rocks with uncanny bravado and without hazard.

  “Say your prayers, girl.”

  Stormy glanced over her left shoulder to the tenth rock and in the direction of the Falls. It was a little farther than a comfortable stride for her. Turning her body she leapt, and as her right foot landed she slid, crashing to her knee. Flailing and falling half forwards she crashed against the body of the rock, bringing her right arm down, and with it the hatchet that had been her mother’s.

  Mezzaculously, the hatchet blade found a fissure in the otherwise smooth rock. The force of Stormy’s fall wedged the axe excaliberite into that rock, preventing her from being swept away. Grabbling with her left hand, she felt the blade sear into her fingers, but did not let go until she regained her balance and was able to pull herself up to standing.

  Even above the din of the water, she could hear the screaming crowd now assembled on the bank. She looked up and saw Braggardio, advancing, laughing. She saw her father step out from the riverbank in pursuit of the Prince. She saw the blood dripping from her hand and felt dizzy with shock.

  Only one empty rock now separated the Prince and Princess.

  “One last miracle before you taste your reward, Princess!”

  Stormy knew in her heart she had to end it. She could not risk Braggardio killing her father. She tugged at the hatchet with her good hand, but it was wedged solid. This was actually a good thing. Had Stormy swung the axe at The Prince as he landed on the rock next to hers, he would have been within striking distance to meet it with his sword. Again, that was a battle Stormy could never win.

  As it was, she remained a finger-length out of reach as Braggardio swung his blade horizontally in the direction of Stormy’s chest. Instinctively holding tight to the hatchet with her good hand, she was able to lean back that necessary finger length without losing her balance. If Braggardio leant forward the extra distance he would be the one toppling forwards.

  “Come, Braggardio,” shouted Stormy with a conviction she wasn’t yet sure she felt. “Come taste the Prince Killer’s kiss!”

  Then she was, all of a sudden, sure. Quite sure.

  Maybe she was possessed by Alexena the Goddess of Rock?

  Alexandra Stormybald Wilson held out her bloody arm taunting Braggardio … and withdrew it double speed, as he swiped again, wobbling dangerously.

  “Strumpet! Whorlet! I can wait until you bleed to death.”

  And then Walterbald, sword drawn, was shouting behind him, and the Prince wheeled to look. He could spear the girl with his sword, but then he’d be defenseless against a bereaved king. End it now, he thought.

  He turned back towards Stormy, and she saw the look in his eyes.

  She could hear her father shouting, but dared not look. She flicked her left wrist theatrically, and droplets of her blood flecked Braggardio’s face.

  “Taste the blood of the Prince Killer,” she screamed, and the scream filled the whole valley, drowning out the crashing of the waters, as Braggardio leapt at her, and they both plunged into the water.

  Cold! Cold! Cold! The water stung her bloodied hand. Like cells dividing, fear replicated itself into a whole body panic. Where everything else was relentlessly fluid, Prince and Princess desperately clutched at each other. Then they crashed over the precipice, and Stormy saw black.

  Braggardio’s clinch relaxed and fell away, but as the shadow filled her senses she felt a new vice-like grip. Death’s bony fingers and opposable thumb closed about her waist to squeeze the last breath from her, and then … and then for shockingly there was an and then—the falling felt like soaring. Like when your hands are so cold with overexposure to ice they burn. What new kind of pain was this?

  Instead of water crushing her, she felt the air rushing against her face, but still the tightening constriction around her stomach. Stormy felt that her eyes wanted to open, but she dared not let them. It had only now occurred to her that the torments that awaited the Prince Killer in death would be far worse than those of the world she was leaving behind. And then, another and then…

  “An uncomfortably close, and unorthodox call, if I do say so myself,” croaked The Gricklegrack.

  Stormy opened her eyes for a second, saw the mighty talon that gripped her waist and the black, black feathers of Emmeur’s belly, and promptly fainted …

  Far, far below, on the bow of the first longship curiously separated from the other eight ships by the upended wreck of Toromos’s ship two Oosarian guards, Rosenstern and Guildenkrantz, were mesmerized by the huge black raven soaring above the falls. Wheeling majestically and to all appearances playfully, it had dived at the cascading waterfalls, as if taking a shower.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like he’s got a fish!” said Guildenkrantz.

  “Maybe an eel,” replied Rosenstern. “Or one of them nymphemons they have up north.”

  “You don’t see that every day,” remarked Guildenkrantz.

  “No, you don’t. Whatever it was,” said his comrade.

  They were silent for a moment and then Guildenkrantz idly began tossing an Oosarian coin. “Nukeander or Merm?”

  “Merm,” replied Rosenstern.

  “Merm it is,” said Guildenkrantz.

  “Yeh, but bloody well look at that. That ain’t no mermangel,” said Rosenstern as he rushed to the bow. They both saw a body floating towards the flat waters where the ships were moored.

  “Should we fish him out?”

  “Better had. If we know what’s good for us.”

  After some commotion and with the help of the natural eddy which did most of the work in bringing the corpse to them, Guildenkrantz rolled the body over in the water with a pole.

  “Wangus Corpus!” breathed Rosenstern as the stricken face broke the surface.

  “Braggardio!” hissed a stunned Guildenkrantz

  The landscape was no longer black, but Stormy found herself drifting between thoughts, which like the tentacles of a giant anemone wanted to ensnare her. She flicked her tail, her Mermangel’s tail, and sped away. She saw the sun beckoning above and tasted the air as she broke the surface, flexing her wings and taking flight. The thoughts that chased her turned into winged harpies with the faces of people she knew. Everyone was barking questions at her: Queen Nukeander promised to hunt Stormy all her days. Rogerley Bishop, the rogue wangodmatist, asked if she was looking forward to eternal volcanemonic hell? Fred was riding a white donkey asking her to marry him. Her grandmothers were
already arranging the wedding. Gwynmerelda wanted Stormy to tidy her bedroom. Stormy could not believe this last insult. After what I’ve been through, she wanted to say.

  The Witch in the Ditch was saying “I told you so. I said Three Dead Princes and there are: Oooh let me count. One, Two, Three!” The Witch was drowned out by the gigglanths, merging into the laughing Giggle Monkeys of her dreams.

  Glamour was telling The Witch to shut up, and Stormy wanted to go with her. But first she had to find her father. All she had wanted to do from the beginning was be with her father. Stormy saw The Fool and said: “Have you seen my dad?”

  The Fool grimaced and nodded, indicating The Princess look behind her.

  There was the cave, and there in the mouth of the cave was the giant black horned Cat saying:

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” said Stormy impatiently.

  “Have you got it?”

  “For a cat that speaks, you are mightily dense. Open your eyes. Look around you!”

  The Cat looked around and smiled a Lancashire smile.

  And then, where the Cat and the cave had been, there was a woman and a garden. She was bent, rooting some rose cuttings, but turned and stood as if Stormy had disturbed her. She dropped her metal trowel, and Stormy saw the woman’s mud-stained fingers. Then the woman opened her arms, inviting her daughter’s embrace, and Stormy hugged her mother Ursula.

  “Alexandra Stormybald. You have all the time in the world ahead of you” Ursula said, and kissed Stormy on the forehead. She smiled at her daughter and said “I love you.” Stormy’s heart melted and then her mother said, “And now you can open your eyes.”

  Stormy had only been unconscious for a few moments before The Gricklegrack had landed, and a few moments afterward. But she was momentarily blinded by the sunshine and overwhelmed by the noise of everyone around her, flapping, cooing, and cheering the miracle. The fingers of her left hand seared with pain, but she could feel that someone had bandaged them. Even before her senses came into true focus, she knew that she was being cradled in her father’s arms.

  “I love you,” said her father.

  “I love you too,” said Stormy and she wept as her dad helped her up.

  She could hear The Fool shouting “Give her room, she needs air!” She could hear Zilpher and Gigi swooning with relief and the hubbub of the crowd beyond.

  And then she felt Gwynmerelda move to embrace her husband and she saw the happiest expression on her dad’s face that she could ever remember.

  Stormy found herself smothered between King and Queen. It did not matter that the metal of the Morainian mountains of Gwynmerelda’s breastplate dug into her back. For it was also the happiest feeling of the Princess’s life. The three of them stood, royally grand, but only sort-of-like a royal family. For moments upon moments they held each other and let the good tears roll.

  Chapter 21

  THE RIDDLE OF THE EGG

  Happily ever after? In the days that followed, Stormy simply wanted to disappear into the familiar surroundings of Bald Mountain Castle. She was happy to spend time doing very ordinary things. She was happy to eat food and help make it, and was even glad to be told off by Gwynmerelda for not tidying her room.

  The battles were over and the war was avoided for now. But along with the happiness came some darkness. Her mind was bombarded with questions, some real, some imagined questions that seemed to demand answers she did not wish to confront.

  She was the Prince Killer of Andean legend? Was she cursed by Queen Nukeander? Were there other princes who would seek revenge for their brothers’ deaths? Would someone track her down one day?

  Would someone come back and try to take Morainia all over again? Would she be forced to marry some other Prince to avoid it? But no one would ever want to marry her, except Fred, and she didn’t want to get married anyway!

  Stormy got nervous one day when she woke for breakfast, and her dad was already up and away in the fields helping re-jig some irrigation channel. He was only a short walk away, but she could not eat breakfast before she saw him. Her nightmares and dreams would take a long time to heal. Some would never disappear.

  But it was not all bad. She also had a vague memory from a dream that she should strive to be patient, to try to allow her mind to heal as her fingers would. The scars would remain, but the worst of the pain would recede, if she could but let go of it.

  Stormy remembered the feeling of the dream one morning while she sat in the sun in the castle garden, smelling the roses which Ursula had first cultivated. Her grandfather Jakerbald had offered to teach her how to tend the roses, and they began an experiment in cross-kinking two different varieties. Stormy found it to be the most relaxing thing in the world during those days.

  When her father suggested that he head back up north, as she knew he inevitably would, Stormy panicked and burst into tears. Stormy had been reluctant to leave the grounds of the castle, even to go the short distance into town. The day she tried to go to the library with Gwynmerelda escorting her, they bumped into Fred. Stormy panicked and ran home.

  As well as not wanting to leave home, she felt trapped. She could never leave Morainia, for she would surely be arrested on sight as she nearly had been that time in the Grackle Tavern. Her father had assured her this fear was nonsense, for as word travelled across the northern kingdoms of how the Oosarians had tried to force designs upon Morainia, there was little popular sympathy for the southern cause. Moreover, no authority would dare take action against the legendary Stormy of Morainia, or the Prince Killer as she was popularly known, for fear there would be a mass uprising such as had never been seen.

  Stormy really did not like being treated as a hero. She did not feel like a hero, and though she would, over a long time, learn to live with it, it was a feeling she never felt entirely comfortable with in all her later adventures.

  Walterbald, of course, promised his daughter that he would never make the journey north without her. “One adventure at her time,” he had said.

  And so Stormy was mostly happy to travel up north again by slow donkey, happy to miss the crowds of Archmotherfest, and happy to embrace the restorative powers of the Morainian summer. Best of all was the complete and utter luxury of having her father in her sight every day before sleep, and seeing his beaming face again when she woke up.

  Jakerbald was with them on the journey. He had told Stormy not to worry about their roses, for both Zilpher and Gwynmerelda were more than capable horticulturalists. The Fool, who had been practicing his craft at the Andean encampment, was traveling with General Ghazali and would meet them there.

  Thus a little over four weeks (as the Andeans called their artificial groupings of seven day periods) after the Battle of Bald River Falls, The Gricklegrack made good on his promise.

  There at The Witch in the Ditch’s cabin was assembled in a rag-bag order: The Witch of course, and Glamour her daughter; three generations of the Wilsons Jakerbald, Walterbald, and Stormybald; The Fool, and General Ghazali of Andea; and, of course, Emmeur the Great Bird, who was feeling much more himself after his wounds had healed.

  In the warm sun of high summer they pondered the strange egg before them. They pondered and pondered, and then Ghazali suddenly said, “Maybe it’s a screw-top?” laughing as he said it.

  The others looked at him bemused.

  Spitting into his palms and then rubbing his hands together vigorously, Ghazali addressed the egg. Grappling it between his knees, he used his whole upper body to try and get some purchase on the dull, but still slick thing. He somehow managed to get a grip with the flats of his hands, above the perfect hairline crack that ran horizontally around the toppermost portion of the egg. He wrestled with the bit one would slice off the top of a soft-boiled egg, to enable the dunking of toast soldiers into a runny yolk.

  He laughed as he felt some movement, wrestled some more, and gingerly began to unscrew the lid of the egg. To the amazement and applause of those gathered around, he lifted the l
id away and took a bow.

  Walterbald was the first into action, busily examining the thread around the lip of the lid with fascination. Inlaid into the lid were the numbers “323/1000.” Those would eventually tell future examiners that it was one of a series. And then there were words, saying that this particular egg came from “West Yorkshire.”

  Jakerbald was about to peer into the egg itself when a never-before-heard beeping noise sounded.

  The Witch shrieked with trepidation. Ghazali laughed, of course. There was a sort-of-communal “hmmm” of intense curiosity from the others.

  Though none knew it then, once the egg was open, the warm rays of the summer sun had struck the black panel that was inside it, triggering a whirring of invisible moving parts.