“They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to
He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.
Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from The Silver Pitcher Inn, and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood, but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.
“Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”
“As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”
“Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.
“Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”
There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.
The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge of the division of loot and began to divvy it up as best he could.
“Give the half-elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.
“What?” The innkeeper asked stunned. “You want us to give
Drake quickly cut in, “Listen, we all fought equally tonight. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.
The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm, but his eyes smoldered.
“What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, ’em is
There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He came within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was still crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back to the crowd.
“Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, and coldly. “They are my Royal Protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys will be executed.” There was quiet in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”
Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then helped Myron up. The monk was silent now and walked in a daze. He no longer looked around; instead, he focused on his blood-covered hands. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.
As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-elf gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I will hold everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once—it will be legal.”
The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed. “It was my own uncle.” Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Hadrian mentioned. “The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he’d be just as big a target as you, only he’s not a blood uncle is he? His last name is Braga not Essendon.”
“He married my mother’s sister.”
“Is she alive?”
“No, she died years ago, something to do with a fire.” Alric slammed his fist on the saddle’s pummel. “He taught me the blade! He showed me how to ride! He is
Nothing was said for awhile, and then Hadrian finally asked, “Where are we going?”
Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering’s castle. He is…was…one of my father’s most trusted nobles, a staunch Royalist, and the most powerful leader in the kingdom. If he is still loyal, I will raise my army there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or
