The Prince

by K. C. Herbel

  “My death?”

  “Yes.” He placed his sword on the earl’s neck. “Because of your sacrifice, they will rally beneath my brother’s banner to wipe this scourge from the land.”

  “Please. … Please, I’ll give you anything, just let me live.”

  Hengest sneered at the nobleman and sheathed his sword. “You disgust me.”

  Relief flooded the earl’s eyes. Then, suddenly, Ergyfel’s brother clubbed him across the face with a mighty blow. Before Cairmac knew what was happening, Hengest had tied his hands behind his back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping my word.”

  “What word? What word?”

  “That you would die upon the battlefield.”

  He thrust a loop of rope around Cairmac’s neck. He then tied another loop in the other end and tossed it over the saddle of the earl’s horse.

  “No!” Cairmac cried. “No!”

  Hengest smiled once more. “Do not worry. I will never tell your wife and daughter what a coward you were, no matter how long I must comfort them.” With that, he swatted the horse, and it bolted into a gallop.

  Hengest didn’t wait around to watch the earl’s last charge, but instead, dropped low in the brush and scurried into the woods. The forest was full of Gwythian soldiers, and he reckoned that the now-deceased earl had been telling the truth about their strength. The bastards, he thought. They let their archers do all the killing. He glanced over his shoulder at the carnage that was transpiring on the heath. They even kill their own.

  Hengest killed two archers and slipped past a dozen swordsmen before hiding under a log-bridge. He waited, breathless, while a large force marched over him to clean up the remains of the earl’s troops.

  When he was sure they had passed, he rose up and headed farther into the forest. There, he happened across a young officer who had dismounted to relieve himself. Hengest gained access to his back with stealth and planted a dagger in his heart. He scanned the dark woods as he eased the man’s body to the ground. The only sound was the far-off ruckus of battle and the last breath of the youth escaping his lungs. Hengest leapt to the back of his victim’s horse and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Are you still with me, brother?” Hengest urged the horse to go faster.

  “Aye, brother.” Ergyfel sounded somewhat breathless. “I think I finally understand what it is about battle that you love. But we’ll talk more of that later. I will send to you a special mount. It will await you at the Feorrdagas crossroads. Do not fear, brother, the steed will not harm you, and it will bring you here much quicker than any earthly beast.”

  “But I …”

  “I need you. … And I’m sure the earl’s widow will need comforting.”

  *

  Ergyfel broke the magical contact with his brother and fell to the floor. His muscles ached and his arm burned. He had not expected such an intense contact, or for the magic to take so much out of him.

  He rose and crossed his sanctum to a set of bookcases. There, amongst his valuable books, nestled a small statue of a horse. He picked it up and examined its smooth onyx surface.

  Ergyfel spoke to the stone steed. “I’ve been saving you for just such an occasion.”

  He then placed the figure on the floor and stepped back. Next, he took a bag of silver filings and, with them, drew a large circle on the floor around his feet. Then he chanted:

  “The inner eye that found you,

  The arcane hands that ground you,

  The learned tongue that bound you,

  The whole that did confound you,

  Now commands you to come forth!”

  Ergyfel repeated the rune six times, each time feeling the power in his body build and the sickness in his arm itch. Then he shouted, “Come forth!” The stone statue shattered as the pain in his arm brought him to his knees.

  One by one, the tiny black shards sublimated and became smoke-like, sooty vapor that hung in stringy columns on the still air. Ergyfel detected a slight sulfurous odor. The mist stirred, first to the right, then the left. The columns swayed and merged. With unexpected speed, they charged towards Ergyfel and circled his position. Faster and faster the mist circled until its movement created a whistling wind that knocked books from their shelves and sent papers flying around the room. The lamps swung violently on their chains, splashing sporadic shadows and beams of amber light on the walls. The sound rose and fell like a gusting blizzard heard through a window.

  Abruptly, the shrill whistle became a whinny, and the mist coalesced into a sleek, sinewy steed with the color and sheen of coal. It snorted and glared at Ergyfel with its red ember-like eyes.

  “Finished?”

  The shadowy beast shifted its weight from side to side and examined Ergyfel with hot, discerning eyes. It lowered its head with caution, then crooked its front knee and bowed.

  Ergyfel smiled. “Good. Then you do remember me.”

  The steed stood.

  “Go now … to the Feorrdagas crossroads. There, you will wait for a man wearing a medallion like this one.” He pulled on the chain about his neck. “You will bring the man and all his belongings here to me, as fast as you can, intact and unharmed; or you will learn what an eternity locked in stone feels like.”

  The steed grunted and pawed at the floor. Ergyfel looked down at the thin silver band around the ankle of its foreleg.

  “Of course. … If you complete my task, I will remove it.”

  The creature nodded, and became thin and smoky again. It then fled up the laboratory’s small chimney as if sucked out by tremendous winds. A shrill whinny echoed from the shaft as the last dark plume vanished.

  Ergyfel rubbed his hands together and chuckled. I can hardly wait to see Hengest’s face. He waved his hand, and all the lamps were quenched. In the dark, Ergyfel laughed again. Especially when I tell him what I’ve got planned.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Proposition

  Lady Myrredith dismissed her maid. “Good night, Megan.”

  “Good night, milady. Pleasant dreams.” Megan bowed and closed the door.

  The clank of the key in the door as the guard locked her in rang in Myrredith’s soul. This shadow of existence—a condemned prisoner under the gallows—had gnawed through her nerves, and it was all she could do to keep up a facade of calm.

  Pleasant dreams. The thought was itself a dream, for sleep did not come easily anymore, and the life she led when the curtain on sleep did rise was a hellish play of her demise.

  “Please, not tonight,” Myrredith pleaded as she laid on her bed.

  She stared at the ceiling, the wall to the left, the wall to the right, and finally again at the ceiling. The flickering firelight soothed her mind, feeding her kind thoughts of long gone yesterdays.

  Sleep was almost upon Lady Myrredith when she heard a low grinding noise. She sat up and scanned the room. The light from the fireplace had declined to the mere glow of embers.

  Suddenly, a shadow crossed before the hearth. Before she could scream, a large, coarse hand clamped over her mouth, and another at the back of her head. Her assailant smashed into her with his armored shoulder and threw his mass onto her body.

  Myrredith slapped, punched, kicked, pinched, twisted, clawed, and bit the man, but only grew tired under his iron strength.

  He forced a dirty cloth in her mouth. “Go ahead, Lyonesse cow. I like it rough.”

  Myrredith continued to struggle and, by chance, found her hand on the hilt of his dagger. With little thought, she bared the blade and drew it back to stab him. He grabbed her wrist and pressed his thumb into the joint.

  “Now, now. No toys for you.”

  Counter to her will, Myrredith’s hand sprung open, and the weapon dropped to the mattress. The warrior flicked the dagger off the bed and riposted with a slap to her face.

  He whispered into her ear, “That’s just a warning.” He then licked her stinging cheek.

  Myrredith resisted with all her migh
t, but his was the powerful body of a man who had trained his entire life to battle men and beasts and topple castles. His breath was all wine, gristle, and rotten teeth while his body reeked of smoke, manure, and week-old sweat. His implacable stench was the only equal to the juggernaut’s might.

  A terror like no other ripped through Myrredith’s frame. She felt smothered and helpless in the brute’s filthy grip. Even her death sentence was less cruel than this gruesome offense. Her sole desire was to escape. She yearned to leave the bonds of her earthly body and float away on the wind.

  With one hand, the despoiler raised Myrredith’s arms above her head and tore the front of her nightgown with the other. His eyes widened with lust when he spied her pale torso. He halted for a moment, just long enough that it seemed he would not continue. His tongue absently caressed his upper lip before a lecherous grin crept onto his broad, stubbly face. He lunged into her, biting her neck and moving down to her collarbone.

  At that moment, there came a knock at the door. Myrredith’s assailant popped up and stared her in the eye. The knock became more insistent. The brute glanced from side to side, and then turned his head around to face the door.

  Myrredith managed to spit out the rag and scream. “Help!”

  The would-be rapist came back around and slapped his hand over her mouth. “You taupie! You’ve ruined everything!” He reached to his side, groping for the weapon she had taken. His heavy eyelids snapped open in alarm, then lowered again to glare at Lady Myrredith. His coarse paws gripped her throat. As he cut off her air, Myrredith clawed at his face.

  A key rattled in the lock, then the door burst open, and three men charged in, reducing the juggernaut to a scared rabbit. He released his victim and leapt from the bed. Frantic, he searched the floor for his dagger, but to no avail.

  Prince Hereweald charged in. “Get him!”

  The young soldiers accompanying the prince sprang at the culprit, but he opposed an easy capture. He tossed one, arse over teakettle across the room, smashing a table to kindling. In the blink of an eye, he dropped the other soldier to his knees with a kick. Just then, he spotted his lost dagger and snatched it from the fur rug like a hungry tiger.

  The first soldier recovered from his tumble and, seeing the naked dagger, drew his sword. He rushed his foe, tripped on the spilled bedclothes, and ran himself onto his opponent’s blade.

  The young warrior stared into the old campaigner’s face, and then down at the weapon in his chest. Myrredith’s attacker was shaken, but true to his years of training and battle, he grabbed the younger man’s sword and let him slide off his dagger to the floor.

  By this time, the other soldier had regained his strength and stood ready to do battle. With firm hand and grim eyes, he faced the slayer of his comrade.

  The two warriors began to circle, but then the prince stepped in-between them. He stood erect, holding his naked sword in a relaxed fashion by his side. He still wore his chain mail and the bloodstained tabard he had worn into battle.

  “Decurion, would you harm your prince?”

  The man opposite the prince shifted his gaze around the room, looking for an escape. The muscles in his jaw flexed. Then he pursed his lips and wrinkled his stubbled chin. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he cried.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” the decurion blubbered. “I could never. It’s just that Lyonesse kelpie! She’s the enemy, ain’t she? And she walks around here like she still owns the bloody place! I just wanted—I just wanted …”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill Bryan. She is the enemy!”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The decurion lowered his weapons. “I am sorry, Your Highness. It’ll never happen again.”

  “Yes, I know, Decurion.” The prince paused for a moment. “How many campaigns have we been on together?”

  The decurion gave a cautious smile. “Many, Your Highness. Many.”

  “Aye.” The prince nodded. “You’ve proven a good decurion, but I know you too well.”

  The decurion nodded with his eyes lowered, and Hereweald plunged his sword into the old soldier’s heart. The prince held his flawlessly executed lunge position until the man on the end of his sword raised his head and made eye contact.

  “Therefore, I grant you a quick death and no mention of this to your family.”

  Blood ran from the lips of the decurion as he sputtered and coughed. He crumbled to his knees and rasped, “The battle, my prince?”

  “A victory.”

  The decurion smiled, then slumped to the floor. The prince cleaned his sword on the dead man’s tunic and sheathed it.

  “Remove these two and send for the lady’s maid.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The guard moved toward the door.

  “And someone to clean up this mess!”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Now!”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  *

  Prince Hereweald approached Lady Myrredith as the guard exited. She cowered on the bed against its headboard, staring at the decurion’s body, unaware that her breasts were half exposed. Hereweald caught himself staring at her naked beauty, then turned away with boyish embarrassment.

  “Milady?” He spoke in soft tones. “Milady?”

  Myrredith blinked. She turned her attention to Hereweald and attempted to answer, but couldn’t manage. She rubbed her throat, swallowed, and whispered, “Yes.”

  “Milady … I do not know how to apologize for such a villainous outrage! I hope that you can forgive me.”

  Myrredith noticed the prince’s awkward stance and looked down to her torn gown. She wrapped the remnants around her and pulled a quilt up to her neck.

  “It’s very important to me. I can’t tell you how much. You see, I …” The prince stopped when he saw the lady’s vacant stare. “This can wait ‘til morning.”

  The young guard returned at that moment with two more soldiers. Megan was on their heels.

  “Milady?” The maid rushed to her mistress’s side.

  Megan then turned and stood in front of Myrredith and, in a fiery pose reminiscent of her ladyship, she ordered the prince to leave.

  Hereweald cowed her with a frosty stare, then turned and ordered his men to “Hurry, before they grow stiff!”

  After his men had removed the bodies, he turned to leave, but stopped at the door and spoke.

  “I know you’ll take good care of Her Ladyship, Megan. Stay here the night. If there’s anything she needs, do not hesitate to ask. My physician is at your disposal.” He pulled the door to him. “Oh, yes. Send for me the instant she is up to a visitor. I have something very important to discuss with her.”

  Megan bowed her head, and he closed the door.

  ***

  The dawn came to Myrredith as just another moment. If not for the early morning chill, which gripped her bones, the arrival of a new day would have gone unnoticed.

  All at once, Myrredith sat up in bed and pulled the quilt around her. She spoke to the maid sleeping in the chair next to her, “Megan. Megan!”

  Megan blinked her eyes and hopped up, ready to battle. “What is it, milady?”

  “All is well, Megan. Have you been there all night?”

  “Aye, milady. Except when the prince came askin’ after ya.”

  “Prince Hereweald?”

  “Aye. He said he wished to speak with ya on a most pressing matter. His words, not mine, milady.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you well, milady?”

  “Yes, Megan. I will be.” Lady Myrredith fell silent for a long while. Finally, she spoke, “What did the prince say?”

  “He’s so impatient, that one,” Megan said in her allegro gossip’s tongue. “Kept goin’ on and on, really about nothin’, and finally says that if you can’t be seen this morning, he would see you this afternoon. I tried to tell him that it was simply impossible, but he insisted. Then he orders me to make sure you were presentable and dow
nstairs by supper tonight!”

  “Ordered you?”

  “Aye, milady, and he was none too polite about it.”

  “Presentable?” A hint of ire shadowed Myrredith’s voice.

  Megan smiled. “Aye, milady. That’s what the prince ordered.”

  “Well, we shall see about that!”

  Megan tried to egg Myrredith on further, but her tiny spark dwindled, and she slipped into brooding.

  She rested in the room she had inherited, on a bed that was a wedding gift, under covers her hands had sewn, and yet she was mindful that they were no longer hers. In fact, the world was no longer hers. An awareness grew that the world was shrinking even as she prepared to leave it for the next. Her mind had come to accept the fact that she would be executed soon, and the night’s events had gone far to convince her that she was powerless to stop it. Yet she did not wish to die.

  It wasn’t so much the loss of her life that Myrredith resisted. She felt she had very little left to live for. Billy was gone, Hugh was dead, her people were worse than defeated, her ancestral home had fallen into enemy hands, and Prince Hereweald’s army was sweeping across Lyonesse like a plague. No, the thing that chafed her was being executed like a common criminal. That was a defeat, regardless of the accusation’s veracity. The victors would write history, and the fact that she, the last Cyndyn, would be portrayed as a wicked, barbaric murderer tortured her conscience.

  Lady Myrredith’s mind moved with primitive, forbidden thoughts. They were foreign to her, against her very nature, but they made her pulse quicken and the blood course faster through her veins.

  She was tired of being the victim in this entanglement. Tired of standing by while her people suffered. She had to do something. With time, she could solve any dilemma through diplomacy, but the current circumstances left only enough room for drastic measures. To end the pain, someone had to die; either her or Prince Hereweald, and since she wasn’t scheduled to die for a while yet, that left the prince.

  Killing him would end it, and it would be so simple. Myrredith sat up and pondered the idea of murdering Hereweald for a moment. The image sent a shudder through her.