Rise of the Dead Prince, page 3
“Father,” said Assur, “can we not send an envoy to request access to a sea port along the southern border? We could ask for a narrow strip of land and perhaps avoid conflict.” Ian nodded emphatically at his brother’s words.
“I agree with Assur, Father. Is there no way to maintain our long-standing peace?” The generals were divided, but the king spoke next.
“They would deny us, and then we would go to war anyway, except that our surprise would be foiled and we would likely fight to another stalemate, thus wasting our efforts. No, my sons, we must attack them directly and make a straight path to the capital city!” There was still doubt in the war room. He addressed it. “War is inevitable between our two nations. Even now they contemplate the same move. Who will join me in striking first?” There were no more dissenters. Assur and Ian clapped their hands on the king’s back from either side, pledging their full support to the endeavor. Meier watched on, thinking of something he might say, but thought better of it. His father’s eyes had grown large with the thought of a bigger kingdom to rule. His would be a great legacy, and he would not be denied. Meier looked at the pieces on the board, and suddenly, a strange thought came to him. He recalled his history and then looked at the map again. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t say what it was. He shivered. They were forgetting something. All of these generals and ministers seemed to be missing something big.
Meier, as ever, didn’t say a word. And so the Valahians prepared for war.
2
The Feast and the Wizard
All told, King Wold had managed to recruit and assemble just over twenty thousand men in relative secrecy. The towns from which these men came were given strict orders to maintain the secret, and this ploy had worked almost perfectly. It was an army of volunteers, mostly from the western reaches of the land. The standing army of Valahia was five thousand strong, and so after leaving a relatively small force behind at the capital at Targov, the king set out with the largest army Valahia had produced in over one hundred years. The only ones who had known about the army had been those directly involved in its assembling, which is why the three brothers and many of the ministers had been taken aback by the news. In the years to come, this hasty force would come to be known as the “‘flash flood army.”’
As a matter of tradition and honor, the three brothers, who were all of age, would ride alongside their father to war. Queen Mira would take up ceremonial arms and stay to guard the capital in the absence of her husband, as was also tradition. Yet another tradition was the great dinner before the march, which took place in the great hall of the castle. All men were to wear their full battle attire to this occasion. Prince Assur was perhaps the most foreboding figure in the hall. He, like his father, was outfitted in heavy plate armor. The prince kept his giant battle axe by his side. He looked as though he could break through an enemy line singlehandedly, and this was probably true. The force he would command would be the vanguard cavalry of army veterans, who were all dressed in a similar fashion.
Prince Ian, in turn, was dressed in long ringed mail, which was tied at his waist with a heavy leather belt. He wore his long bow across his back and his twin swords on either hip. On top of his head was a grand helmet with a red feather plume, as if daring the enemy to approach him. His force would be the light skirmishers, who would harry the enemy reserves with arrows, dancing around the field in an effort to corral and flank the enemy. His force would be comprised of the fastest horses and riders, and all would be similarly armed and skilled.
Before the feast, Assur and Ian had dressed Meier in a variety of different armors, starting with ring mail, and then downgrading to chain, then to leather, and finally settling for a heavy quilted tunic. All the armors had been too heavy for him or else impossible for him to move in. To save him the embarrassment of spilling his food all over himself, they decided the lightest of armors would be the lesser of two evils. He was armed with a tarnished saber he had found hanging on a wall someplace, and in his belt was a silver dirk that was probably best used for opening letters. Meier both looked and felt pathetic. His job in battle was to stay by his father in the rearguard and to try and avoid falling off his horse.
Throughout the evening, a great many toasts went out, hailing the king and his mighty generals. Meier was mercifully omitted from this fanfare, and despite his close seat to the king, no one talked to him. This was exactly how Meier wanted it. He tried to smile for his brothers and his father, but his heart wasn’t in it. He made every toast faithfully, all the while mentally straining to become invisible. During the feast, he caught the old conjurer Crocus looking at him and smiling from his seat at the far end of the table. Was he laughing at his ridiculous presence? He certainly did not seem to be sneering, but rather he seemed genuinely proud. Meier chalked this up to extreme senility and then dismissed it. Throughout the rest of the evening Meier tried to avoid eye contact with the geriatric trickster, but as often the case in such matters, he couldn’t help himself. Every time he glanced over, the old man was beaming at him. It was getting irritating. Meier finally bugged his eyes out at the old man, as if demanding that he stop. It was rude to be sure, but Meier didn’t care. How could he be invisible when someone was staring at him?
It was then that the worst part of the evening began. Crocus stood up and was acknowledged by the king. The diners all smiled, ready for some entertainment from the old man. Crocus cleared his throat to speak, with goblet high in hand.
“Distinguished ladies and lords, I have a toast and a prophecy to share with all of you!” he said. The table went silent in expectation. This should be good. “First off, a toast to Valahia’s princes! All of them! Cheers!” The table toasted.
“And now for a very real prophecy. I’m really very certain of this one.” The old man closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, as if to communicate that he was in touch with the great beyond. “You will win the day, my lords, but not how you think! Help will come in the most unexpected way, and at the crucial moment, it will be a stroke of luck that saves the day! So that’s good!” Crocus drank again then sat down. No one seemed overly pleased with the “‘prophecy.’” Had he been a smart entertainer, he would have said something like, “You’ll win easily and be dancing at the capital in a fortnight.” The table was quiet for a few moments, but soon the awkward silence passed, and people returned to their meals. In a minute’s time, the words of the batty old gentleman were mostly forgotten. Meier looked over, and Crocus was looking at him again. He shook his head and covered his brow. How he wished he would stop it. Why was he looking at him anyway? Was he really so deranged that he couldn’t cast his creepy glance elsewhere?
After the feast, Meier was one of the first to escape. He said good night to his parents and his brothers and then slipped away as quietly as humanly possible. Most of the rest stayed up exchanging heroic tales and drinking. Staying for that would have been even more uncomfortable than the whole of the evening combined. Meier headed to his quarters in a state of supreme despondency. He had never felt so embarrassed. He was convinced that everyone at the feast had spent half their time wondering why he was there. Shouldn’t he have been hiding under a rock, as was most fitting? Once he reached his room, he ripped off his belt in a petulant moment of fury. The saber and dagger clattered to the stone floor. As an added gesture of frustration, Meier kicked the leg of his bedside table as hard as he could. This resulted in a hurt toe and a stream of uncouth words. On the bright side, the table was completely undamaged.
As Meier was struggling to take off his uncomfortable clothing, there was a knock at the door. Meier was in no mood. “Come again later!” he said, a bit louder than was necessary. There was a brief period of silence, followed by a quavering old voice which said, “No!” He knocked again, as though that would help anything. Meier was a prince. Crocus was an annoying court entertainer. Who was he to say ‘no’ to a direct order? Enough was enough. Meier opened the door violently, his tunic half off. He was a disheveled wreck, and he wanted the old man to see just how inconvenient his visit was. “Can I come in?” he asked, already walking in.
“No!” said Meier. He tried to block him from entering by spreading his arms, but he had to give it up when his pants started falling down. He was halfway to undressed, after all. Crocus ignored the direct request as though he had not heard it; and instead he came in and started walking around, picking up this and that, scrutinizing personal objects, and behaving in far too familiar a way. Had the old man finally snapped his last branch? It was entirely possible.
“Are you completely crazy?” asked Meier, exasperated.
“Yes, I think I am,” responded Crocus nonchalantly. He then stood still for a few seconds, deep in thought. “Nope! I’m sure of it. I’m crazier than a cave full of rattled bats!” he exclaimed, smiling. How did one respond to this? Meier was momentarily unsure.
“Look, Crocus, it’s bad enough that you creepily smiled at me throughout the whole feast … but to barge into my room is just plain torture. So the question is … why do you hate me?” Meier sighed heavily then plopped down on the edge of his bed and started tying his pant strings, waiting for the old man to stop and go away. Maybe he could call for the guards. That could work.
“I don’t hate you at all, quite the opposite. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long while. I made a potion just for the occasion.” The old man produced the potion from an inside pocket. It was a murky green color and appeared to have bits of who knows what floating around in it. Crocus held it as though it was immensely valuable.
“I’m not drinking that, Crocus,” said Meier. “Ever. So please leave and I’ll try to forget how your senility led you to break into my chambers uninvited and unwanted.” Crocus laughed.
“I’m just here to help you! So let me ask you this. Are you ready to go into battle with your father and brothers? Let me answer. No! Of course, you aren’t! You’re a hapless misfit with no visible skill of any kind, and everyone knows this.” Meier was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he heard.
“You know, that was surprisingly unhelpful, Crocus. I’m not sure if you realize it, being crazy and all. Now please try your best to leave the way you came! I swear I’ll call the guards if I have to.” Meier was at the end of his rope with all of this. The old man seemed unfazed.
“Would you like to see a magic trick, perhaps?” he asked cheerily.
“No! No, I would not! Now get out!” Meier responded angrily, still fighting to keep his drawers up.
“Well, that’s too bad, because I have just the trick, and I’m going to show you anyway.” Crocus laughed manically. He was clearly out of control. Meier hastily cinched his trousers and marched to the door to call for a guard or two to bodily remove the crazed man from his room. Crocus snapped his fingers, and the door suddenly closed and bolted itself. Meier was so startled that he nearly fell over. His anger hadn’t quite faded, but most of it was suddenly overtaken with curiosity. Crocus looked suddenly winded.
“Must have been a draft, eh? Even the wind wants me to stay! So there!” He cackled again, but a bit more weakly. Meier narrowed his eyes slightly at the old man.
“My window is closed, and the door closes the other way …” he said, doubting what he had seen. He tried the door, but it seemed jammed at the moment. Meier shook his head violently. No, of course not. A trickster has tricks, probably a string or something.
“Well then, if you are quite finished trying to run away, I’ll tell you a secret.” Crocus crossed the room to the mirror on the wall and motioned for Meier to join him. Reluctantly, he did. Nothing special was happening.
“How did you close that door?” asked Meier with sudden interest.
“With magic, silly,” Crocus answered. “Now hush and listen. If you look in the mirror, you’ll see the most important person in this whole kingdom.” Meier scoffed but played along. Another magic trick perhaps. Meier looked in the mirror, but only saw himself and the old wizard. Suddenly, Crocus took a large step to the side. Only Meier was left, staring at his own uninteresting reflection.
“You’re not funny at all,” Meier said.
“So what did you see, eh? Was it Assur? Ian perhaps?” asked Crocus honestly.
“Of course, it wasn’t, you deranged lunatic. That was the lousiest magic trick I’ve ever seen.” Meier was beginning to hate Crocus.
“That’s funny. That usually works. Let me try another one … Mirror! Show us the strongest man in Valahia.” Meier stood by disdainfully, idly wishing that bad things would happen to Crocus soon. There was an odd purple flash that filled the room momentarily. It startled Meier and got him looking for the source, but he soon forgot all about it. Meier looked in the mirror with a sarcastically quick glance but then quickly looked again.
There was Assur, plain as day, drinking in the great hall! It was like looking through a window that Assur’s face was on the other side of. Meier nearly fell over again. He took a step back, shaking his head.
“Some trick, right?” Crocus asked happily. “You’re tiring me out with all your negativity and skepticism, so hopefully you believe me now. I’m old, you know. I can’t take it.” Meier slowly nodded. His head was feeling a bit light. His life had just changed a little. Magic? Real? Who knew? Nobody, that’s who. “Are you all right, young man?” asked Crocus.
“I, uh … yes,” Meier managed. “How?” This time, it was Crocus’s turn to sigh.
“Like I said, you may recall, it’s called magic, you slow boy. Now here’s the real reason I’m here! So listen, will you? You are very important, Meier. The mirror showed you your own reflection when asked for the most important person in Valahia. I came to show you that, and to give you this!” Again, Crocus produced the nasty-looking flask of liquid. Meier looked at it in an entirely new way.
“I still don’t believe any of this is true. It’s impossible. I’m one of the most worthless, uninteresting people in the whole country.” Crocus just laughed.
“Of course, you are. You just happen to be all that as well as the most important person.” Crocus handed the flask to Meier. “You don’t need to believe any of this right now, Meier. That’s not required. What’s important is that you take this potion with you into battle and drink it before the first charge. It’ll clear your head a little and make it easier for you to think better. It’s not really magic, just herbs and such.” Meier pulled the stopper and smelled the concoction. He nearly gagged.
“Ugh! It smells like rotting fruit!” he said with disgust. Crocus nodded, clearly impressed.
“Good nose! I prefer to describe it with the term ‘overripe,’ but I suppose the fruit part might just be slightly rotten. I only added the juice to cover the other flavors. It won’t hurt you though. I give you my word as a crazy old man.” Meier was unimpressed. “Anyway, I’ll leave you now, and just sleep on what I said. Keep the potion, all right? I promise it will help. Now good luck on your journey.” Crocus concluded with a bow. Meier was still flabbergasted on no less than two levels, and so he had a hard time responding. He nodded and managed to say, “Uh yes … good night, I suppose.” Crocus saw his way out, but this time, he opened the door like a normal person.
3
The War Path
Noon the next day came agonizingly fast for Meier. He spent the two hours after breakfast, stumbling around with his heart racing. Against what half of his mind was telling him, he faithfully packed the horrid potion in his saddlebags, along with his other supplies. He just hoped it didn’t break in there and befoul his remaining goods. Meier got dressed and then put on the irritating armor, all the while wondering how his brothers coped with the far heavier versions. He supposed they were just better suited in every way for this sort of thing, and he was correct.
It was when Meier started wandering around the castle that things got strange. He was looking around for his brothers, checking their rooms first, and then finally making his way to the next obvious location. This of course was the war room. Yes, they were there, but that was not what was strange. It was the behavior of everyone he passed in the halls. The servants had long since learned to ignore him, excepting of course for the deferential head nod that befitted all royalty. Today they were talking to him. It was disconcerting.
“All the best, my lord!,” they would say, and “Our hearts are with you!,” and many similar things. He supposed that they were saying these things to every man involved in the war effort, but in his case, they seemed especially emphatic. It must be because he was a prince. It was still strange though. He awkwardly thanked them for their praise and well-wishing, but what he really wanted to say was,
“You know that I’m going to be of no help at all, right?” He refrained however from doing this. Even more strange than this was the fact that he almost liked the attention. He, the gloomy prince, was feeling less gloomy for once, very strange indeed.
When Meier entered the war room, he was greeted with more warm praise from his brothers and even his father. They had all been up since dawn with the generals, discussing strategy and the plan for attack. For once, he paid close attention to the map. On it he saw the main focus of the meeting. It was the crossing of the Milco River. This river was the border between the two nations and had been for over two hundred years. There were two major forts on either side of the river, one for the Valahians and one for the Karavunians. These had been the watchtowers since those days long ago when the border had finally been agreed upon. The enemy stronghold was called Harsov, and it was of similar strength and size to the Valahian fort at Colif. The first stage for the conquest of Karavunia was to take that fort at Harsov, thus securing a foothold into enemy territory and to prevent a Karavunian counterattack. The plan was fairly straightforward, but Meier still had a bad feeling. Of course, he still had a bad feeling about the whole war in general, but the time for protest was long since gone. Perhaps it was just his nerves. The thought of battle wound him up like a drum.
