It would be almost a month’s journeying to reach each of the other realm cities. When sufficient water, food, shelter, and their belongings were included, the trail of carriages and horseback riders was several hundred yards long. Again the King addressed the assembled masses before they left. Final instructions were given on the safest routes they should take. To each he handed a parchment with the King’s seal.
“I described the fate we are facing and requested support from the other realms’ armies. Let us hope they heed our call before Ampheus falls.”
Each of the ambassadors stepped forward and knelt in front of the King. They received the King’s scrolls to be delivered to their own realms and left in turn. No one doubted this possibly might be the last time they would meet.
In the briefest of moments between the King and Queen, their eyes met. An understanding passed between them, unspoken but understood by both, then she smiled at him and turned.
But Princess Fayette rushed to her mother, crushing the air out of her with a desperate hug as if never to let her mother go. Her mother stroked her hair and she gave her a reassuring smile and whispered into her ear, “All is not lost my little elf. It will take more than the mighty army of Gorath to breach these walls. Believe good will prevail and I will hold you in my arms once more.” She kissed her daughter on the forehead one last time then led her back down the steps of the Great Hall and to her father, who embraced his sobbing daughter.
Logar briefed his two commanders who would lead the Amphean knights guarding the two parties. Two of his most trusted Captains: Rolden and Gulden.
“Before all else, ensure the safety of the Queen and the King’s scrolls; your lives are secondary to this.
“Fail, and I never want to lay my eyes on either of your faces again.
“Gulden, your party will be most exposed as you travel east and closest to Gamura. Any of Gorath’s scouting parties or roaming bandits could be potential threats. The only saving grace is the Great Fault of Borna. Its towering and majestic walls have proved a defiant defence for Windstrom against the north. It should thwart any sizeable force bearing down on you.”
With an unaccustomed gesture, he embraced both men. “Be swift, be brave, and most important of all, may the gods be with you.”
*
If Gulden and Rolden were identical at birth, one could argue that that was the last time the twins had looked alike. At two years old, Rolden had climbed out of their cot, fallen head first over the railing and cracked his forehead on the sharp edge of a floor slab. An ember had fallen from the fire on the hearthrug and the child was apparently trying to reach it before the manor house caught alight. It had left an inch-long scar above his left eye.
It was at that moment that their mother joked, “At least we’ll always be able to tell them apart.” But ironically it was the times they looked apart that oddly fell into the minority.
Gulden sliced his eye when he fell out of a tree at the age of six; he’d been scrumping apples from the orchard down the lane. When the farmer saw him and gave chase, Gulden slipped as he made his escape, earning himself a scar in the exact same position as his brother.
One could always assume they just did this on purpose, just to screw with people. At the age of ten, Rolden had his nose busted by a local bully after he’d stepped in to the defence of one of the smaller kids in the village. At the age of fourteen, Gulden had broken his nose falling out of a hayloft, again being chased by the angry farmer when he’d stolen his first kiss from Mary, the farmer’s daughter.
“First my apples, now my daughter,” was apparently the farmer’s words. “Going to keep my prize pig locked up in the house from now on.” Not that it was clear what threat the farmer envisaged his pig was under from Gulden.
So, in the end it was not the bumps and bruises that said the most about the twins, but the manner in which they gathered them. Rolden, the saviour and defender of the weak. Gulden, the rapscallion and tearaway, never far from trouble. That said they were inseparable and fiercely loyal to each other. Like brothers they fought and were competitive but neither doubted that if one was in trouble the other would be standing right behind him.
Those who knew them better knew that Gulden was right-handed and Rolden left-handed. Rolden had a faint birthmark on his shoulder where Gulden had none. That Gulden had a wavy mat of golden hair whereas Rolden oddly had dark brown hair, which he had shorn, was never mentioned. Yes, their mother had a cracking sense of humour, warmth that both boys had inherited. They were popular boys with all, well with the exception of the farmer.
Other than that, their lives were similar, and the boys were inseparable. Coming from relatively lofted roots, they wanted to be knights. They were avid students, first becoming squires, then in turn knights of the realm. They trained and worked hard. As squires they were required to master the ‘seven points of agilities’. Riding, swimming, shooting different types of weapons, climbing, wrestling, combat, long jumping and dancing, often while armoured. As knights they trained constantly with sword, lance, axe, mace, both mounted and unmounted. They were the finest the Amphean army had to offer, trusted by the Captain of the King’s Guard and the King himself.
Steadfast, sure and unwavering. They provided gallant support to those that needed them.
The brothers smiled at each other and hugged, banging their fists on each other’s back.
“Troth to the Realms!”
“Race you back here!” Gulden said to his elder brother.
“I too want to come back here and kill a few of Gorath’s mercenaries, so do you think you can keep up with me, little brother?” chided Rolden.
“Just make sure you return safely; there will be plenty for both of us!”
With the sound of the trumpets, each carriage train left the castle. They turned in opposite directions to each other. Gulden to the east, Rolden to the south. The King’s Guard wore their ceremonial dress, resplendent in dark blue uniforms inlaid with gold braid. The white grappling lion, the king of beasts, blazoned on their breastplates. Their heads bore the silver helmets with a tassel of white horse hair dancing to one side.
As they trotted into the distance, the sun glittered across their helmets. It appeared seemingly like the shimmer of light on a babbling brook at dusk as the sun dips and disappears over the horizon.
*
Aron and his companions had travelled swiftly for three days. They had to make accommodation for Leo as he still struggled on Flint. He was sore and aching from having ridden for such a prolonged period. As the Prince crested a hill, he turned his horse and sat up in his saddle and stared back the way they came, but could not detect any sign of pursuers.
He pursed his lips; “If the King had sent cavalry they would have caught us by now. Or at least have us in their sights. We’ve made good ground, but we are not fast enough to outrun an Amphean cavalry unit.”
Daylon nodded. “I think you are right. I believe the King let us go. Perhaps in hindsight he regards that there is merit in our journey. We should be thankful and emboldened for that.”
Alon pointed ahead of them. “I suggest we camp near those rocks by the river tonight.” With one last glance behind him, he turned and walked his horse down the other side of the hill and to the riverbank.
Leo helped Daylon gather wood for a fire. Once back at camp, they had got the fire going and Aland appeared from the woods with a couple of skinned rabbits under his arm.
He smiled and placed them on the stone next to the fire. “We’ll eat like kings tonight,” he laughed. “Well, princes at least.” Daylon picked them up, created a spit from young yew branches and gently turned the rabbits as they roasted. Leo was stripping some sprigs of herbs under Daylon’s direction and asked, “The three of them appear very close; is it usual for a prince to have such close friends in the guard?”
Daylon smiled. “They have known each other si
nce they were children. The King insisted the Prince went to a local village school. It would enable him to learn some humility, to grow to understand the people’s ways and to admire the fortitude they show as they go about their daily lives. The King believes that the key to understanding another’s life is to walk a day in their shoes. I’ve often heard him say this. It is not about standing, possessions and wealth, but about kinship, faith and helping one another.
“Well, Aland and Ailin went to the same school as the Prince and became lifelong friends. It is rumoured Aland once pulled Aron out of the river when he was drowning. He had stumbled into the stronger current. Aland had rescued him and saved his life.”
Aland strolled over. “What hogwash, Daylon; princes can take care of themselves,” and smiled.
*
There are those people who if you look at them and squint your eyes, you could see another outline around them. No matter how skinny or athletic they are, you really know they are a fat person inside a skinny body. All it will take is a small break in their routine, and they’d revert back to the same chubby person they feel most comfortable and at home with. Aland was one of those. A few days’ break from training and his cheeks would fill out and his belly would expand a notch on his belt; then Ailin or Aron would kick him back into shape again.
As a child, Ailin would call him her little bear; he had a body that she just wanted to squeeze, which he did not mind at all. He still had that round face, round eyes, a nose slightly flared at the sides, though his cheeks were sucked in from his military training. But what was clear was that some day he would retire his military rank and make a dashing and debonair fat man. At some point in the future he’d slow down, grow his hair longer as it took tints of grey, leave a scraggly beard unattended until it itched, and buy a bigger pair of trousers and belt. But that was for then; for now he needed to stay lean and fit to have Aron and Ailin’s backs, and he meant it.
Aland was the son of the town baker and had a mother that aspired to several levels above her station. Her efforts to keep up appearances and impress were a constant dismay to the baker and excruciating to her son. She would accost noble ladies in the street with an air of superiority. She would speak a number of decibels louder than necessary so that no one in particular would be left in doubt as to her station or indeed lack thereof.
Her son, his hand held so tightly in her vice-like grip, would watch mortified as the noble ladies’ patience waned and they stepped away and made excuses to leave. But his mother was unperturbed and persisted and tried to make her introductions. What made matters worse was that Aland was a chubby boy as a result of the pick of bountiful cakes left over from the day’s sales. Oh, and the fact that his mother dressed him like a doll. Not in dresses mind you, but dandy britches and jackets, or whatever happened to be the fashion of the day. The life of a baker was not for him; her little genius was going to be a gentleman, a rich merchant or an ambassador. And that was what she cared to tell anyone and everyone she met.
So, when other children attended school in loose-fitting tunics and trousers. Aland was fitted with a shirt with a stiff collar, tight-fitting britches and shiny polished shoes, typically adorned with a bronze buckle of some description.
He stood forlornly to one side of the schoolyard, while the other children rough and tumbled over a game of ‘stuck in the mud’, their elbows and knees painted with grass stains and a dusting of dirt. He longed to join in but dared not risk the wrath of his mother if he dirtied his clothes. But it was this isolation, these differences, that would be the spark, the faintest of flames that would for ever change his life.
He’d been strolling to school along the bank of the river when a couple of children from the village stepped in front of him. That day he was wearing a lacy purple flowing shirt with sleeves that covered his hands. The frills on his neck rose up to his ears. His britches were an impossible contrasting emerald, and his shoes green and perhaps an inch pointier than usual. But despite all that, the subject of their attention was his pointy felt hat, with two enormous peacock feathers sticking out of the top and flapping wildly in the breeze.
“Remind me!” said one. “Is it peacocks or swans that are protected by royal decree?”
“Definitely swans,” said the other. “So, we can take this pudgy peacock here, pluck it, stuff it and serve it up for dinner with some spuds.”
The tallest peasant boy grabbed Aland’s hat and held it above his head as the young boy jumped for it and pleaded with them to give it back.
Just at the time by happenstance Aron and Ailin rounded the corner.
Aron quickly took in what was happening and naturally stood in to help his classmate.
“Enough!” he said. “You’ve had your fun, now give the hat back, no harm done.”
“Oh, not so fast, remind me, is it peacocks or swans that can swim? I’ve completely forgotten,” sneered the elder peasant.
“Not sure, let’s find out!” replied his fellow crony, and with that the boy threw the hat into the river. It was quickly caught up in the current that was surprisingly fierce.
The group followed along the bank watching it bobble on the surface, slowly sinking as it took on water, with the boys pointing and laughing as the hat sunk. Aron grabbed a stick and leant out on a tree branch to attempt to hook the hat. The next few moments passed in a blur. The branch that Aron held on to cracked and he plunged into the river and disappeared into its torrent. It knocked the wind out of him and left him coughing and spluttering, unable to take in any breath. In flailing to get a footing instead of swimming, it only served to pull him under the surface, and towards the raging torrent of the weir downstream.
Ailin turned to the larger boys, “Do something!” she cried.
But they were rooted to the spot, mouths opening and closing with no sound coming out.
Only then did she catch the flash of colour behind her – a purple blur to be exact.
Aland threw himself into the stream with what could only be described as a spectacular belly flop, but it served its purpose. He kept his head above the surface and by swinging his arms side to side he managed to make his way to the Prince. He grabbed hold of him and steadied him enough for the Prince to grab a breath or two. What passed between the two of them in those few moments, only they know? But they were swept towards the weir and only just managed to grab hold of a wooden strut before being sucked down into the swirly torrent beyond. They held on together for ten minutes, the water washing over their shoulders, until eventually, Ailin’s father, the local blacksmith, clambered across the weir and dragged the two exhausted boys to safety.
As they sat quivering from cold and shock, Aland’s mother appeared. She clipped him around the side of the head and dragged him off by the ear, scolding him for ruining his best clothes. ‘And how unbecoming and embarrassing it was for her to have her son wallowing in the river like a common water rat.’
The very next day, the Prince arrived at school with a bundle wrapped in string under his arm. He untied it to reveal a shirt, tunic, trousers and boots for Aland to wear while at school, if a little tight around the middle. And the Prince brought the same bundle every day that they grew up together. Aland turned out to be remarkably good at ‘stuck in the mud’ and Aland’s mother was none the wiser.
Chapter 7
The Queen
Daylon nudged Leo. “We also all know Aland is soft on Ailin but has never yet had the courage to court her. Not that she would have him,” he chided gently.
Aland blushed. “Daylon, please. I swore an allegiance to the Prince and it is my first and last pledge. Ailin and I are just friends.”
Daylon winked at Leo. Ailin had been scouting the surrounding area and returned to the camp. “What are you three old women nattering about?” Aland froze and Daylon smiled and said, “Unrequited love.”
“Really?” Ailin appeared surprised.
Aland interrupted. “Yes, some old Windstrom tales. Some people should have more sense than gossiping.” He said no more but turned to Daylon pleading him with his eyes to say no more, mumbled under his breath and went off to lay out his bedding for the night. Having eaten their fill, the Prince called them over to the sand on the riverbank and started drawing on the sandy ground.
“We are three days from Ampheus which is here; we’ve followed upstream along the alluvium plains of the River Dalicuer. We’ll continue for another week or so. If we stay close to the river we should find a clear passage through the wetlands and forests that the river meanders through. We should not be troubled as there have been no sightings of bandits for many years in these parts. Gorath’s armies are coming from the north-east of the route we are taking. We should be able to skirt around to the west of them.
“Of course, if Gorath is aware of the prophecy, he may well have anticipated we would seek out Saturnus. He may indeed try to seek him out himself, so we should be prepared for all eventualities.
“After a couple of weeks we’ll start to climb steadily up to the Ice Fields of Nyle. The terrain will change as we pass from the forests to the marshlands. Then the air will thin, the temperature will start to drop and the land will become barren. Beyond the Ice Fields are the Misty Mountains.”
The Prince paused. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. This is not a journey any of us have made before. We do not know what we will encounter. We will need to be resourceful.
“It may also mean that while we must be cautious, it is likely we’ll need to trust in those who may help us along the way. That said we must be sparing in terms of what we share about the purpose of our journey.
“I suggest we portray ourselves as pilgrims heading to the Misty Mountains. It is a plausible cover given the history of the mountains. It may just ensure when we pass, if not unseen, that we may slip in and out of people’s minds without leaving a lasting memory.”
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