Rise of the Dead Prince, page 2
“That was stupid,” he said listlessly and then found his way out into the world.
Most of the castle was awake at this hour. Despite this, there was a certain “new” feel to it in Meier’s mind, coupled with a sort of eager anticipation that caused him to move forward quietly for fear that he would break the spell and turn it back into the mundane.
All of his fatigue had passed by the time he came to the hall that overlooked the kitchens. The cooks and their many assistants were hurriedly making breakfast. The ovens were blazing. Two young women were cutting melons and crafting the pieces artistically, while one young man pulled a tray of hot bread from the fire and fanned it. Breakfast, thought Meier. He never ate breakfast. Well, almost never. There were times when his mother insisted, but even then, this was all new. He had never watched people make breakfast before.
Stealthy as a shadow, Meier escaped notice as he slunk across the narrow balcony to the next hall. Once there, he smiled at his own childishness. It had become a sort of game. If anyone noticed him, he would have to greet them or talk to them, and then he would have to become a part of this day, and it was hours too early for that. Yes, he would sneak about from here to there, always escaping notice like a shadow, deftly clinging to the unseen areas of this busy world. That was the game. And Meier was usually bad at games. Well not today, he told himself with a grin.
Naturally, this resolution preceded the end of the game by only a few seconds.
“Good morning, my lord!” exclaimed the clarion voice of the woman that had appeared behind him. Meier nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to face his assailant, this assassin of his fun, this … rosy-faced, middle-aged woman that clearly had not even a rude bone in her body. She tilted her head at him and started to take notice of how flushed he was. “Did I startle you, my lord?” she asked apologetically.
Yes! Yes you did! screamed Meier in his head, but what actually came out was a sigh followed by a dry, “No, of course not. Good morning to you as well.” The woman, whose name he didn’t know, seemed pleased. She waited for a second, holding her basket of bed linens and smiling at the young prince. After another second, Meier realized he was squarely in her way. He shuffled to one side and let her pass. “Sorry about that.” He chuckled nervously.
“Of course not, my dear,” said the woman, and then she was gone. His game now ruined, Meier frowned in sullen defeat. He crossed his arms for a moment and then resolved to go to the courtyard, in other words, where the people were. From where he stood, it was a fairly short walk to the south wing and then into the courtyard; but Meier, being who he was, took a wrong turn and ended up somewhere in the east wing by the outer wall. After a period of cheerless wandering, he eventually found a main hallway and followed it to where he needed to go. He was greeted by at least a dozen people on the way, all of them the early morning cheerful sort.
At last Meier stepped from the darkness of the last archway and into the light and open air. The sun had only crept a hand’s breadth into the sky, but it was still blinding when compared with the torch-lit inner areas. Squinting, Meier stumbled around until he found the steep stairs that led to the upper level. He wanted to get above things and see what he could see. The guards hailed him and went back to their duties, although in these times their duties allowed for a liberal amount of conversation with one another. Meier took the first two stairs with a gallant leap forward, or so he imagined it, but his heart skipped suddenly when he nearly missed the mark and tripped. The loud stomp he made while catching himself caused the two nearest men to turn and look, but Meier quickly scampered away gracelessly to escape the need to return their stares. The two guards smiled and shook their heads, mentally exchanging the same three words with each other, That’s our Meier.
Meier was out of breath by the time he had fled to the top of the inner battlement. The cool air burned in his lungs as he rasped. Once he had recovered from the climb, he made his way to the edge that overlooked the whole of the courtyard. The main gate was visible in the south wall, with all its comings and goings. The stables, which he now stood directly above, were alive with the sounds of horses. But Meier had no interest in these at present. His eyes were fixed on the training grounds, specifically on the most imposing figure there.
And there he was, Prince Assur the Bold, heir to the throne of Valahia and Meier’s oldest brother. Seven years his elder and covered in thick broad muscle, he stood a full head above Meier. Assur was presently surrounded by sparring partners. One or two at a time, they tried to take him down. Dressed in full plate minus the helmet, Assur wielded a huge battle axe, twirling it across his fingers as though it were a flute. He crouched like a jungle cat and waited for his assailants to exploit an opening. This they did, but one after the other, Assur sent them back on their heels or backsides. It went on for over a minute before three men managed to tackle him in a rush. The rest, laughing, piled on, disarming Assur and pulling him down at last. A giant roar ripped the air as Assur fought to his feet again, carrying one man in full armor under his right arm as he did. The big man was laughing as well and, once the pile had cleared, gave the order to return to drills. Meier couldn’t help but smile. It was all he could do to refrain from clapping as Assur had emerged from the dog pile. Assur and he were undeniably as different as night and day, but it didn’t change the fact that the big man was one of the few people that Meier loved deeply.
Assur was, despite his bestial appearance, uncommonly kind and gentle. It was true that he could cow men with a glare if he was so inclined, but had never once done this to Meier, not even as a child. His eyes were light brown, matching his skin, and he wore his dark hair cropped close to his scalp. His handsome face and ingenuous smile were the stuff of local legend, and the people across the land couldn’t have been more pleased with the idea of him as the future king.
Meier made his way along the wall to the outer rampart. From there one could see the greater part of the capital city of Targov, and it presently suited Meier’s fancy to do so. He exchanged greetings with the men on the wall as he passed them, always managing to sound more pleasant than he actually felt. Meier waited until he was above the main gate to take in the vista. There was a semicircular prominence that jutted outward from the main line of the wall there, and it made for the best place to view as much of the panorama as possible. Carefully inching to the edge, Meier leaned forward until the edges of his vision no longer included the castle walls. A cool breeze whipped past his high perch, and the young prince found himself smiling as he gazed down on the waking city below.
Targov was a simple place. It was not overly wealthy or advanced in its architecture. In many ways, it was nothing like a capital city at all. The only thing majestic about Targov was the castle itself, so much so that the grand structure harshly dwarfed the already humble buildings that surrounded it. It was a disparity that Meier took a moment to note, but not ponder on overmuch. If there was one word that he could use to describe the people of this, his home city, it was pragmatic. They had no need to build aesthetically pleasing edifices without there being an essential function in doing so, and so they didn’t.
Meier was snapped out of his daydreaming by the sound of a silver horn blowing a long note. Below he found the source in the form of several riders making their way down the main road to the castle gate at a leisurely pace. Meier smiled again once he recognized the lead rider, a lean man in ring mail with a red sash hanging from his waist. It was Prince Ian the Hunter, the second son of King Wold and Queen Mira of Valahia and Meier’s other older brother.
Ian the Hunter was tall and lightly built. Born two years after Assur, he was also blessed with good looks and charisma, much like his elder brother. His skin was lighter than Assur’s, and his eyes were a deep blue, like his mother’s. Despite being younger than Assur, Ian’s face was more weathered. His gaze was sharp, and his eyes were often narrowed. Unlike the eldest prince, Ian kept his brown hair long and tied into a tail that trailed down his back. The young girls of Targov who were not already in love with Assur were in love with Ian instead.
As the procession made its way to the gate, Meier shook his head, still smiling. Ian’s morning hunt had brought home two large stags and something like ten pheasants. As the poles holding the limp stags came into view, Meier could see that each had been felled by a single arrow above the foreleg, perfect shots to the heart. Of course, the odder sight would have been to see that Ian had not been perfect in his aim.
A thought came to Meier’s mind regarding his second brother’s personality. Ian was truly a master hunter, yet despite his peerless skill, he never took pleasure in the hunt. He had an eccentric belief on the subject that had rooted itself deeply into the core of his own personal philosophy. He would track, hunt, and kill the beasts of the forest; but queerly enough, he also thought of himself as one of them. No one fully understood this but Ian. He would take meat and hides from the forest, but he loathed the idea of hunting for “sport.” He ate what he killed and he shared it, but he did it all in his own peculiar way. He never brought back does or yearlings, and he never took trophies.
Meier’s smile faded as the procession passed from his view. He turned his face to the sun, and as his eyes grew upward from its path, he saw how blue the sky had become.
And so it was.
These were three princes in the land of Valahia, the sons of King Wold and Queen Mira.
Two were considered national heroes, and one was hardly considered. Assur could bend steel rods around his neck, snap axe handles across his knee, and perform many other such feats of strength that pleased crowds. At least these were the stories people told. Exaggerations though they were, they were not so very far from the truth.
As for Ian, he was known for his amazing skills at archery, acrobatics, and swordsmanship. Where Assur was strong, Ian was quick and dexterous. Ian was able to hit a bulls-eye at one hundred paces, walk across a tight rope, and defeat any enemy within three strokes of his twin swords. These legends were even closer to true.
Assur and Ian were very close and often sat with the king in the council chamber, ever learning more and more about matters of state and economics. They also sat beside their father in his war room, and there they learned the art of strategy and the tenuous balance of politics with Valahia’s neighboring countries. They were both quick to learn and generally considered to be quite clever. The two brothers were the very models of princes and all that entailed. If they had been the only royal sons born, then the kingdom would have been more than pleased, for these two were clear proof of the worthiness of the line of kings. But they were not the only sons born.
Prince Meier was the youngest son of King Wold. When placed beside his brothers, everything about him was reminiscent of a sort of genetic afterthought, not unlike the leftovers of a great meal. He was small-framed and frail, given to illness, and generally forgettable in his endeavors. His only real interest was for scholarly learning, but even in this, he was lacking. He could almost recite the line of kings from five hundred years past to the present, describe details of past battles with nearly passable accuracy, and recite epic poems with only a few dozen mistakes or so. He was sullen and depressing to be around, generally disdainful of the martial arts, and utterly disinterested in matters of state. Unlike the tales of his brothers, these stories were entirely true. The young women of Valahia were not in love with him at all. His forehead was too big, his brow was too low, and his eyes were deep set and frequently downcast. In addition to every other contrast from his brothers, Meier was also deathly pale and looked at any given time as though he were about to collapse.
This is not to say that no one liked him. His brothers were quite protective of him, and he had the love of the king and queen in equal measure to his brothers. Ian often tutored Meier in archery, and after years of practice, Meier could hit the target about half the time from thirty paces. The only bulls-eye he had ever scored was preceded by a sneeze at the time of release, much to the stifled amusement of the on-looking castle guards. He was afraid of the tightrope the Ian walked with such skill, and his swordsmanship would best be described as a disastrous waste of everyone’s time. Assur had tried to help him learn to fight with a battle axe and build his body up, but Meier could barely lift an axe; and despite the frequency of his exercise, he always seemed out of breath. Prince Meier was not quite a national embarrassment, but it was a fine line that he skirted. He was more of a national secret, except that it was a secret that no one really cared about.
The only one who seemed to believe that Meier was exceptional somehow was the court wizard Crocus. Now with the title of wizard, it bore mention that this role doubled in most ways as court jester, since no one really believed in magic as a real thing. It was true that Crocus could sort of conjure brief bits of fire, but this ability was suspect owing to the general scent of sulfur that went along with it. Crocus could also read the future in a vague way and was accurate a good 20 to 30 percent of the time. He was also the oldest person that anyone anywhere had ever heard about. His exact age was unknown, but the rumor was that Crocus had already been old when had joined to court several decades prior. These stories were undoubtedly exaggerated, but they certainly made for good gossip. In any case, Crocus had taken a special interest in the black sheep Meier and often offered to teach him the ways of magic in his spare time. Meier typically refused, since he was far too busy failing at his other endeavors; but one day, he finally accepted. Had it been possible for Meier to fall asleep while standing, he would have done so no less than twelve times during the old man’s opening lecture. When it was finished, Meier admitted that he could not have repeated a single word of it even had he been so inclined. His first lesson in magic was also likely to be his last.
The days passed in this manner. Assur and Ian grew to be more and more magnificent, whereas Meier just grew. Meier was eighteen now, and he had soundly established his mediocrity in all of the normal princely skills. Assur and Ian constantly encouraged him, but Meier remained mostly impassive. He seemed for the most part to be indifferent to everything, finding passion in nothing. The older brothers made it their personal mission to find something that he was the best at, for in their somewhat biased minds, Meier was a prince of Valahia and therefore destined to be great in spite of himself. Meier appreciated their efforts in his own way, which meant that he was less lugubrious around them, if only by a little. He often hoped he would find something that he shined at, if only to impress his brothers and make them proud. Then perhaps they would not have to try so hard. If only he could find his niche, then he believed that things might actually look up for a change. Until then, Meier would continue to grow paler in his room, reading his favorite books over and over again, secretly wishing he was the hero of any of them.
It was on the bright morning that Meier awakened early that things suddenly changed. Assur was still in the courtyard, training his already gigantic muscles to be stronger, and Ian was returning from his morning hunt in the woods. The servants and guards were all going about their daily activities. In most ways, it was a day like any other. A runner appeared at the gates, bearing a missive for the king. The fact that he ran straight for the throne room, only stopping to present his seal to the guards, was enough to make the servants of the courtyard take immediate notice, with Meier among them. Wandering back down the ground level, he ran into the woman that tidied his chambers. She was all too happy to add her observations to his own.
“He sprinted clean across the courtyard, my lord, and went straight for your father’s throne. He looked as though his lungs would burst!” she said furtively. Meier was still too tired to be anything but unamused; but despite this apathy, he made his way to the throne room in a nearly straight line, taking only one wrong turn along the way. By the time Meier made it there, King Wold, Assur, and Ian were already leaving for the war room with all the ministers and generals. Meier had never seen so many government officials in a single place. It was quite odd. He lethargically followed them, and no one seemed to take notice as he tagged along in the rear. It was such that the last general nearly closed the door behind him before noticing that Meier was there.
“So sorry, my lord,” he said, moving out of the way.
“It happens,” replied Meier with a slight shrug, navigating the abnormally crowded room. He looked at the large map on the table and saw what the missive was about. Or at least he was pretty sure.
“The army is prepared and will be here by tomorrow morning,” Wold told his generals. “We march for Karavunia at noon, and do not stop until we reach our fort at Colif. With luck, the enemy will not detect our advance until it is too late.”
So that is what it was. Meier felt his heart leap. He had known about the rivalry between Valahia and Karavunia, of course, but he had not known about his father’s plan to attack them. The feud ran deep into history, having started some two hundred years prior. There had been three wars in that time, all ending in stalemate at the original borders. Wold’s announcement was followed by a stunned silence.
Valahia was a small horizontal oval of a country, with the large Gunar to the northwest, the impassible Parath Mountains to the north, the disease-ridden Arnovo swamps to the south, and the kingdom of Karavunia to the east. Karavunia bordered the Nego Sea to its east, and this is what Valahia wanted. The income from sea trade to be gained was worth the assault, and besides this, to subjugate the whole of Karavunia would increase the size of Valahia by a third. But to make war unprovoked? It seemed a bad business to Meier, not that anyone cared what he thought. Assur and Ian were of a similar opinion and were especially vocal about it.
