The Unsound Prince Read online

  He normally wouldn’t mind doing these things himself, but today was market day!

  He grabbed a few small coins, and a tightly woven overcoat that was warm and almost waterproof. Checking he had everything he needed, he headed for the door. As he closed it he wondered whether it was wise to leave the sprite unattended. Would he would find the hut in worse condition, rather than better, when he got home?

  He set out at a fast walk for the village. Firstly he passed his makeshift lumber camp on the right. He thought again about the tree he had prepared for felling the day before.

  Perhaps it would be better to get several trees ready at once. Then he could get some of his neighbours to help him, so it was all over in a day. But then he would owe each of them a day’s labour, and he wasn’t sure he could spare that much time.

  He certainly needed the money from the wood though. He was determined not to go running to his father’s people for a raku more than they’d given him when he first arrived.

  He’d cleared the brush from the overgrown clearing when he first came to the cottage, and soon discovered the area couldn't sustain enough animals to make a living, or a worthwhile grain crop. It seemed there was no choice but to carve more land out of the forest, hard though that was.

  Still, he had to take his smallholding seriously if his presence in the valley was to be believable.

  He didn’t like deceiving people he had come to think of as friends, but he rarely thought of it like that these days. His life here seemed infinitely more real than his other one, in the capital city of the League. Karnassus now seemed very far away.

  His father’s clan council had given him the smallholding when the tenant, a soldier serving in the League armies, had been killed in the line of duty. He had left no descendants, and it had been an easy matter to forge a letter that left everything to one of his brothers in arms, who in turn gifted it to his ‘son’, Mono. Not that he was called Mono here of course.

  He still thought of himself as Mono. Not Prince Rossi Monhoven, the name he couldn’t stomach, but just Mono. It was an unconscious acknowledgement of his lineage, though he didn’t see it that way.

  Mono turned onto a forest track, and into a tunnel of green under the trees. It wasn’t long before he broke into another clearing, with another cottage to one side. Following the track along the side of the clearing, he plunged back into the forest.

  It was darker here. The trees were bigger, and more densely thatched overhead. The gloom made him uneasy, as if there was danger in the darkness. He looked around, but saw nothing.

  A faint glow came through the trees to one side. He figured there was a clearing further over, lit by the morning sun. For a moment he saw an odd shape of black and red through the trees. Then it was gone.

  He walked on, and his mind rationalised the shape into several strangely garbed figures, all walking away from him. He realised with a start they were very like something he had seen in his dreams lately.

  But the forest was still, and quiet, and that made him question whether he had seen anything at all. After a moment's indecision he set off along the track again.

  The sense of danger faded as he strode along, and he shook his head. He dismissed what he had seen as imagination. Things he saw in dreams stayed in dreams, he told himself. They didn’t turn up in daily life.

  It wasn’t long before he came out of the forest and made his way past a row of cottages. They had been built side by side on a larger tract of land. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and an idyllic setting. The gentleness of the day slowly worked its magic on him.

  The clearings eventually gave way to open land, and the first rail fences appeared. These were used to keep animals in, or in some cases out, of the fertile holdings around Shaker’s Hope. There were a few men and women in the fields, tending to necessary chores. They would soon be back inside, preparing for their part in market day.

  The fields got smaller, given over to vegetables and fruit trees, and buildings loomed ahead. The track became a proper lane. It ran along the back of some stores that opened onto the main square. Mono was headed for one of the hunters’ dens, where anything from skins to basic foodstuffs could be traded for coins or supplies. He had arranged to meet his friends there.

  He turned up the short path to the back entrance and found the den already open. He pushed his way through the hanging cloths that kept out flying insects. A tall youth his own age called to him from the front of the shop.

  “Hey ho, Mudge, didn’t expect you for a while yet!”

  “You calling me a slouch, Jago,” he replied, feigning indignation. “Remember what happened last time you forgot your manners.”

  “Yep, I paddled your backside good and proper,” came the reply.

  Mudge burst out laughing. Jago was his best friend in the valley, and as with many friendships they took a lot of liberty with the truth. Particularly when they were trying to outdo each other. Mudge was his name now, Mudge Wheeler, and it was a perfect name for a village surrounded by forest on the edges of the Wild Marches.

  Mudge let his friend’s comment pass – for now – and looked around the shop for the others.

  “Where’s Bear?” he asked, thinking it odd that Bear wasn’t around. His friend usually ran the store when his father was busy elsewhere, as was the case today.

  He was unsure about Bear’s strange name, or the story that Bear and his father had killed such mythical animals when they were many days west in The Wilderness. Bear’s sister Shyleen wasn’t there either, which was good. She always managed to look cool and elegant, and Mudge never knew what to say around her.

  “Don’t know,” said Jago. Then he added, “Colma’s gone to get something for me, and Luce is right behind you.” Mudge spun around, and nearly collided with Andalucia.

  A mischievous gleam shone in his eye, and he put on an offended air. “Trying to sneak up on me, huh,” he said. “Think you can outfox us’n dumb country boys, do you?”

  “It wouldn’t be hard,” she retorted. “You’re deaf as a post, and that’s when you’re trying to hear me coming.”

  “Ar, well then, let’m lowly peasant carry the box for the l-a-a-a-d-y,” he said, mocking her with the long title. Then he tried to take the box she was carrying over to Jago.

  The peasant and lady routine always got a rise out of Luce. Mostly because it was so unfair. She had the good fortune to be very down to earth, despite being the daughter of the mayor. A fierce tussle ensued for control of the box, which Mudge was winning.

  Then Jago said, “cut it out you two. If you want to wrestle with her, Mudge, ask the mayor if you can walk out with her.”

  Mudge let go of the box like it was red-hot, and they both blushed furiously. The thought of walking out together must have occurred, subconsciously at least, to both of them. There was a strained silence until Colma walked in.

  “Come on, you three,” said Jago. “Bear wants to open the store in a few minutes, and I need help to get it set up.”

  When Bear did turn up, a little later, Shyleen was with him. After a quick inspection of their efforts, Bear showed his appreciation with a nod. Jago was fast proving useful running the place when Bear was away. Moments later it was time to open the store for business.

  Mudge took a seat at the back of the hunters’ den. He was happy just to be present, and to join in the excitement of market day. His friends were with him, and that was what counted.

  He felt for the first time in his life that he belonged. There were a few awkward moments sometimes with Luce and Shyleen, but he didn’t feel complete without the girls around either. Such were the mysteries of life.

  At least in this place he was simply Mudge Wheeler, one young man with a smallholding among many smallholders. Not Mono, and definitely not Prince Monhoven, and that felt good.

  He worried that he might snap at one of his friends, showing something of his spoilt childhood at the palace, but that seemed less likely these days. Though he could still make
a fool out of himself when he felt unfairly accused of something.

  He had decided that his temper had something to do with his mother’s early death. Strangely, he felt responsible. He knew how stupid the thought was. He was only a child at the time, and nowhere near the hunting accident when it happened.

  It hadn’t helped that no-one, then or since, had told him any of the details. He felt himself steam up at the injustice of it, and made an effort to relax. What had happened to his mother seemed destined to remain a stone unturned.

  Fortunately Jago asked him to pick up some spearheads and wheel rims from the smithy. The errand gave him something to do. He snapped a mock salute before hurrying out into the sunlight, and turned right.

  Senovila’s smithy stood by itself in a small field away from the square. This was a wise precaution, since smithies were well known for burning down. A stallion and several mares kept the rampant grasses and tatty scrub around it under control.

  When Mudge had first arrived in Shaker’s Hope, Senovila had been the first to take the new boy under his wing. Mudge had really appreciated that. He hastened to see his friend, and mentor, once again.

  TWO

  The square was still mostly deserted. Mudge was halfway across it when he heard a disturbance ahead of him. A man’s voice was raised in anger, and was suddenly choked off. He heard several women scream.

  Then there were people running toward him. His friends appeared outside the store, looking for the source of the commotion. In the distance, Senovila came charging out of the smithy. He had a square-headed hammer in one hand and a battle-axe in the other.

  Looking in the direction of the noise, Mudge could at last see what was happening. He stopped in his tracks. Three black-clad figures with red masks and ornate headpieces were striding rapidly in his direction. They wore long pleated skirts that brushed the ground, and they were callously murdering anyone in their way with long, curved swords they held in either hand.

  One of them raised a piece of carved amber enclosed in a loose net of gold, and swept the square with it. He turned it towards Mudge, and it flared into life. The three figures snapped their heads around, and began to run toward him. Chilling cries curdled his blood.

  Senovila was closing in on the black figures from behind. Then a spear hurtled toward the figures from the direction of the store, to be knocked contemptuously aside. Mudge felt something happening behind him, a prickling sensation similar to when he called a sprite.

  One of the figures threw a knife that whistled past on Mudge’s left. The prickling sensation stopped abruptly. Then Jago burst past him, wielding a sword taken from the store. His first blow was deflected downward, and Mudge watched in horror as the sword held in the other hand opened his friend from hip to shoulder. Jago tumbled to the ground.

  Then Bear and his father were next to him, swords drawn.

  “Back up, boy,” said the older man harshly, and they began to walk him back toward the store, but the trio were on them too quickly. Mudge continued to walk backward, trance-like, as the two men left him and tried desperately to keep the first of the attackers at bay.

  As if in a dream he saw Senovila throw his axe, and the third figure fall face down with the axe blade buried in its back. The second attacker ran back and slid his sword under the swinging arc of Senovila’s hammer. It cut across the smith's bicep.

  Senovila cursed, and dropped the hammer. The swordsman flicked his sword back and ran him through the heart. The shock of the sudden impaling showed on Senovila’s face.

  Pulling his sword free from the toppling form, the swordsman whirled about and ran to help the attacker driving Bear and his father back. He stopped to dispatch one of the villagers, who tried to take him from the side with a short stabbing spear. Then he was in front of Mudge. One of the long, curved swords whipped round to take him in the neck.

  Something clicked inside Mudge then. He felt in one moment all the anger he had tried to control for his whole life. Then his outrage at what these . . . things . . . were doing to his friends, to his village.

  He realised he was going to die.

  So be it, he thought calmly, but someone was going to pay for this.

  He reached up in a moment and caught the blade as it travelled toward him. He was surprised there was no pain. The metal of the blade felt odd. Malleable, eager, somehow alive.

  He called up what power he had, and sent it into the sword. Though he knew that calling a forest sprite was a far cry from killing an experienced swordsman. The blade flashed like molten metal, and the swordsman tore his hand away from the other end.

  Mudge looked at the sword, now hanging in the air between them, and nudged it with his mind. It spun, decapitating his assailant. Sword and body toppled slowly toward the ground together.

  Mudge looked at what he had done in surprise. Then the world seemed to speed up again. The body of the swordsman hit the ground, and the head rolled away from it. Mudge looked up, and saw the last of the attackers caught between the spears of angry villagers, and a vigorous attack by Bear and his father.

  The black-clad figure plucked something from its belt, and pushed it into the mouth behind the mask. Its body went rigid, then arched backward. It stayed upright by willpower alone for a few seconds, before it toppled onto the ground and was still.

  Villagers poured into the square, wailing over the crumpled forms of their own people. One by one the dead were brought into the back of the store, under the watchful eyes of Bear and his father. It was clear the body count was going to be high.

  The victims all bore sickening wounds. The more faint-hearted of the living left the shop to sit along the wide veranda. Mudge forced himself to confront the still shapes of friends and neighbours he had lost.

  The first five bodies on the long trestles were villagers he knew only vaguely, but next to them lay Pieter Waldrow and his wife Valmar. Mudge had liked them. They were good people. It was they who had first confronted the intruders, and paid for it with their lives.

  Then there was Jago, white and motionless on the long table. And beside him Andalucia.

  The loss of his closest friends wasn’t registering yet. It was just a vague numbness that he would feel later. The loss of Andalucia in particular didn’t make any sense. She was one of the few forces for good in the world. It seemed unfair that death had not respected that.

  He realised she had been constructing a spirit veil for him. That had been the prickling sensation in the square. Then the knife the attacker had thrown had taken her in the throat. She had died instantly. How had she known what a spirit veil was, he wondered vaguely, and how to construct one?

  Nonetheless, she’d died bravely, trying to defend him, simply because he was her friend. It was too much of a revelation, and Mudge had to look away from the ruined body. He felt completely wooden, hardly able to move his arms and legs. He left the back room of the store, and made his way into the square.

  He could see the bodies of the attackers where they had fallen. A funeral pyre was already being put together outside the village. No one thought the attackers worthy of burial and sacrament.

  Mudge found Shyleen on the verandah, and they embraced naturally. It was amazing how grief removed any sense of embarrassment. Colma made his way dispiritedly in their direction, and the three of them clung together briefly.

  Bear finished laying out another of the villagers inside the store. Then he came out and stood with them. Six of us, thought Mudge, with everything to look forward to, reduced to four. Jago and Luce hadn’t even lived yet!

  Tears filled his eyes.

  The last of the fallen were carried past, and Mudge realised shakily that Senovila was not among them. He said so to Bear, who put his finger to his lips. Then he said quietly, “wait here until I get Ochren.”

  When the older man returned, he motioned for Mudge to follow him. The young man shrugged, and trudged dispiritedly after him. They made their way toward the smithy.

  It seemed odd to Mudge
that Senovila had been laid out in the smithy, and not with the others in the store. Still, he had often suspected the smith was from another land. Perhaps this was a foreign custom.

  Senovila himself was dark skinned. Though that could be explained by his work in the smithy, around the charcoal fire and the strange fluxes for working metal.

  His wife was another matter altogether. She was short, rather round, and almost excessively plain. She spoke the common tongue roughly, and talked to her husband in some Xaanian dialect Mudge couldn’t understand. It was rare for inhabitants of the powerful but increasingly decadent empire to the north to make their way this far south.

  Ochren lead the way through the smithy, and into a room at the back. Senovila had been placed in a great armchair on one side of the room. A thick wad of bandages over his heart bulked large under his shirt.

  His wife had cleaned him up nicely, though his skin was now pale and waxen. Mudge wondered if their customs would allow her to bury him with the rest of the villagers.

  Arnima, for that was her name, looked absolutely haggard. More it seemed to Mudge than even grief could bestow on a person. He was moved out of his own pain for a moment to consider her loss. She and Senovila must have been a couple for many years.

  As he turned back to look at Senovila, he saw the smith’s chest rise and fall in a ragged breath. Startled, he spun round to look more closely.

  “Ochren, he’s alive,” he hissed.

  “I know,” said Ochren evenly.

  “But he was dead, I saw it myself,” said Mudge. He couldn't hide his disbelief.

  “He was,” said Ochren. There was a long pause.

  “It’s Arnima’s doing,” added Ochren at last.

  “There’s much you don’t know about your time here, Mudge Wheeler, but it’s not up to me to tell you these things. Senovila will answer your questions – when he has recovered from his ordeal.”