The Fugitive Prince Page 11

  “Daddy, why do you and mommy have golden rings?”

  “Oh, these small things? They are a symbol. They show others how much your mother and I mean to each other.”

  “Oh. Can I have one too?”

  “Haha, my little hunter. It’s only meant for two.”

  “But how can I get my own?”

  “In due time Cassandra you will find someone you can share a ring with.”

  Cass opened her eyes and looked at the rings tied to her neck. An echo of an emptiness lingered above her heart. Looking back at the cabin, she watched the prince swing again. He had brushed himself off and was trying three times as hard to please the red-bearded man beside him. The prince had cleaned himself up. Valente looked practical and proper. He replaced his tattered royal raiments with a green woven shirt and brown pants. All of his garments were tightly tied together with a neat leather vest. His intense, black hair was pushed back on his head letting the determined glint of his blue eyes cascade forward. Cass turned her gaze downwards remembering the somber truth. She pulled on her braid running her touch over her twirled locks as she prayed.

  Oh, Seven. Hear my humble request. Shor, your grace and compassion burns within us all. Grant me the love I hope to have, and may the one I seek be like the one I travel with. By Seven’s Grace, Amen.

  Cass raised her head as she let go of her lock and festering ache in her heart. With the brilliant speed, she drew her bow once more and shot all her arrows into the tree. If the gods dare not hear her prayers, the tree would feel them.

  Valente swung the blade. The steel’s sharpness cleaved the air in quick succession. Beads of sweat burned throughout the tussle of his brow. Gregor peered down with testing eyes and crossed arms.

  “Adjust the angle of your grip. Your swing is relying too much on your arm.”

  The old knight pointed to his hulking shoulder.

  “You should bear the weight of the weapon through your shoulder and the back of your arm. It’ll help you from getting worn out.”

  Valente looked up at the red-haired knight through his damp bangs. The incredible fatigue hampered his attempt at an incredulous glare.

  “Couldn’t you have told me that sooner?”

  Gregor chuckled and brought his hands together in one proclaiming boom.

  “I wanted to see what you knew. Besides, now you’re this tired. You’ll be that much more interested in learning how to preserve the little strength you have left.”

  Valente would sneer, but the effort for emotions had already retired. Valente faced out to the woods and tried to adjust the blade’s position. The heavy blade pulled on his arm. With gentle shifts in his stance, he tested the blade hoping it would move its weight to his back. Chilled grass crumpled underfoot. Valente abandoned his training efforts and stood up. He pulled his wearied gaze to the noise. The huntress approached the cabin. With hood-raised and a bow and quiver returned to her back, Cass glowed among the trees. She was ready for anything. A drop of sweat blurred his sight as it left his hair and plummeted earthbound with a trailing wisp of steam. The prince sighed as he watched the tip of his blade sink into the dirt. He had spent hours training, yet he was nowhere near as ready as the huntress looked. She seemed to have lived life always prepared and always several steps ahead. Her presence shamed the prince’s lack of ability. Valente pushed the blade deeper into the earth. Another bead of perspiration fell after its brethren. The drop hit the edge of Valente’s blade and trickled down to reach the ground. Though his body burned warm from practice, a crest burned hotter in his vest pocket. Envy and discouragement were never Tharian values. Valente bit his inner cheek. She was not an opponent to best. Cass lifted the hood from her head letting her wistful bangs drift on the breeze. Valente met her hazel-green eyes. Their soft color pushed away the prince’s thoughts of animosity Cass tilted her head at the staring prince.

  Valente broke from his focused glare of friendly rivalry. Cass slowly lowered her inquisitive brow. He pulled the blade from the ground and slid it into the sheath at his waist. The knight stepped to the side to allow Cass to help form a triangle among the three. The huntress stepped to them capping the corner. Gregor nodded at Cass welcoming her. Cass met his greetings with a firm nod as she pushed back her golden braid over her shoulder.

  “We should move just before nightfall.”

  Cass looked at the clouding sky above the leaves.

  “It’s easier to avoid patrols when they’re sleeping. Besides this bow may be nice, but it’s not what I’m used to.”

  Gregor crossed his arms building a massive wall of muscles in front of his chest. He scrunched his beard-consumed chin in agreement.

  “Well, I’m ready to move out. I don’t think I’m too rusty. I hope it doesn’t have to come to blows. We’ll just have to watch out for the Deadwood’s fauna.”

  Gregor landed a robust smack on the prince’s back sending the air and any hope of keeping it out of Valente’s lungs.

  “And you, Val you need to rest. We need you ready for the encounter regardless of how it turns out. You pushed hard out there. You got drive blue-eyes. I’ll give you that.”

  Valente gasped in wheezing acknowledgment trying his best to save face. He fooled no one. Satisfied with the plan, Cass walked towards a near-lying stump away from the suffering prince. She pulled the familiar quiver from her back and inspected her arrows. Gregor pushed open his large wooden door and stepped into the cabin. The door banged against the frame to announce his current absence. The metal grate of the armory door followed it. Valente found his breath as he pulled it back into his lungs as he knelt in the dirt. His body ached, yet it held no lasting discomfort. Valente enjoyed the burn of effort and the reward that came with it. The prince lifted himself from the soil. He needed to get to Tharia and Cass had helped him so far. Without her bow, they may have never gotten this far. Valente shook the humility from his head and snickered ego back into himself.

  Boy, she was heavy.

  Against the advisement of the large lumbering Liosian, Valente heaved the blade up once more. The weight of steel put itself on his shoulders and back. The prince inhaled letting the smooth chill flow throughout his chest. Valente raised his blade and began his continued assault on the air before him.

  -9-

  A small trail cut between the trees that lined the woods behind the Liosian knight’s cabin. The path led to a minor dirt road that stretched out from north to south. Cass kept open an ever vigilant eye as Gregor led them towards the Lost Bannermen camp. The large man had donned a metal chain vest and on his back hung a scabbard the size of his companions. In it was a blade to match. The royal insignia of the Rising Star of Lios was firmly etched into the hardened leather. The breeze whistled past them all delivering a frosted chill running along the napes of their necks. Valente groaned and mumbled as his body ached with each step. Regret had replaced his previous vigor as he dragged his eyes along with his feet. The dirt road underfoot ran through the Northern Liosian woods. Pioneering patches of grass speckled the path giving away its lack of use. Few traveled this forest road due to the risk of the Lost Bannermen or the creatures that lived in the Deadwood. Gregor had mentioned he liked it this way.

  “Less people, less problems.”

  The small group continued south along the path. Even though he knew this way would lead to Cass’s bow, the prince’s spirit wavered. He wanted so badly to reach Tharia and his home, but they were headed in the wrong direction. Valente pulled up the sleeves of his tunic in hopes the breeze would answer the aching plight of his muscles and the woes of his will. The knight’s looked over and stopped his leading march to turn to the royal.

  “I did say you should’ve rested, but I get it. You were showing off.”

  The giant gave a cheeky nod towards Cass. She was too occupied watching the surrounding trees to pay heed to the banter. A rush of indignity fill Valente’s cheeks. He moved to retort but closed his mouth against it. Perhaps there was truth in his statement, but b
ringing up discussion could catch a huntress’s ear.

  If he wasn’t so big…

  Gregor smiled in a suggestive response. Reaching to the flask at his waist, he pulled out a bottle fastened to his belt.

  “Here, try some of this. Made it myself. It’ll take the edge off.”

  Valente looked into Gregor’s jovial brown eyes and then down at the opened flask. The dark neck of the bottle revealed small waves of a rich and amber liquid. Valente had his experience with wines, but never developed the wish for anything more potent. The swirling swill of fluid suggested it was of a much greater potency. The burning muscles under his skin pestered his will. He grabbed the flask taking a brave swig. Any remorse or regret was washed down with the drink. Valente’s face contorted to a single point on his face as he struggled to keep the liquid in. The prince leaned on his legs as he crouched to dissuade the liquid from overwhelming him.

  “That tastes like piss.”

  Gregor chuckled grabbing his beard to go with his ever-glowing grin.

  “It is.”

  The prince’s gut twisted as the world spun around him. Nausea did not do justice in describing the plague he suffered. Cass looked at the unfolding scene with a near-mythical disbelief. A green tinge invaded the colors of his face as he bellowed in angry regret. His fists curled in empowered vindication as Gregor chuckled through his jestful grin. The knight deflected the prince’s rage by taking a deep swig from the open flask.

  “I’m only yanking your leggings,”

  Gregor’s grin expanded tenfold as the liquor hit his stomach,

  “or… was that in bad taste?”

  Humor hovered over Cass’s and Gregor’s heads for a second before executing them in a cacophony of laughter. The ill effects of the liquor dispersed as Valente pushed himself up to protest. The bitter brew burned at his throat dissuading his lecture, so instead, Valente joined the laughter. The cold breeze weakened in the warmth of their jaunt. The laugh decayed to chuckles that soon tapered away. Gregor held his robust grin as he offered the flask to the huntress.

  “How about you Cassy?”

  The huntress blinked the happy tears from her eyes. She held up her open palm as she declined.

  “Sorry, I don’t drink. It makes it harder to aim.”

  Gregor threw three understanding nods her way before powerfully nudging Valente. The prince flailed to catch his balance. Gregor leaned in and shielded his ardently red beard with an open hand as he shouted whispers at the prince.

  “She’s a lightweight.”

  Valente exchanged a chuckle with the royal knight. His senses softened as the drink worked its buzzing charm. Gregor returned his bottle to his belt as he carried on the pathway.

  “We are nearing the Deadwood. We might want to keep it quiet from now on.”

  The prince and the huntress grunted their agreement as they continued down the road.

  Gregor raised a hand as he halted his march. The group had stopped in front of an old tree. The cold had cracked the twisted and gray wood, yet it was not the bark that caught the knight’s eye. On the tree was a browning, chipped skull. A large rusted blade stapled it to the bark of the gray tree. The skull’s jaw hung loosely from its perch as it glared with dead eyes at the three before it. The knight shifted his head over his shoulder towards his companions while keeping his eyes focused ahead.

  “Here we are. Keep close and try to be quiet.”

  The large Liosian stepped his way beyond the tree and into the gray woods off the path. The shadow of the gnarled wood seemed to overwhelm even his hulking form. Valente looked back at Cass. She grabbed her braid and looked at the skull. A worried lined ran across her brow. Her eyes met Valente’s appraising gaze. His presence transmuted her concern into determination. She forged past Valente. The prince watched her follow the steps of the giant man and the dark shade of the Deadwood consumed her too. Valente watched Cass disappeared behind the skull tree. The skull silently cackled at the prince. The chill of wind carried its silent and fearful laugh. Valente gulped the tangible worry and fear that grew in his chest. He placed his hand on his blade’s hilt for courage as he stepped beyond the tree.

  The evergreens became a rarity as they were replaced with the twisted and gray wood of the nettle ash. They were large, looming trees with no leaves of their own, yet hosted a large assortment of vines, mosses, and fungi. This cornucopia of dingy plants created a dark and smelly canopy. The nettle ash itself had little value as lumber and was water-logged preventing it from having any obvious use. The Deadwood was filled to the brim with these insufferable trees. Though most did not remember the Lost Men’s woods by the trees. Its scent was unforgettable. The thick musk clung to the air like a writhing leech as it drained any pleasure or ease from a simple breath. The prince heavily coughed as his lungs refuted the oppressive atmosphere. Valente tapped his anxious finger on the hilt of his blade. He was not eager to leave it out of his reach, nor stay in the Deadwood for longer than necessary. Tales about these woods were told to keep little peasant children in their homes at night. The prince was not spared from such stories: legends of living shadows, man-eating trees, and other darkness-thriving creatures of the night. Valente did his best to perk up his hope.

  Lies told by the Lost Men.

  A shiver of doubt ran up Valente’s spine as a cold wind danced through the hanging vines around the three. The tendrils moved with eerie and haunting intent.

  Probably.

  Gregor looked back at the pale tint in Valente’s cheeks and brought his voice forward in a whisper.

  “These woods have you on edge Val? Don’t worry, most of the tales aren’t true.”

  Cass pulled her hood closer around her in vain to fight off the fear and the frost that tickled her skin.

  “Most?”

  The red-haired giant smiled loudly as he spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Well, just don’t let the trees watch you sleep.”

  Cass and Valente looked at the retired knight with grave concern. Cass tried to keep her mind occupied elsewhere. Her ears betrayed her efforts as she swore she heard a distant howling from among the trees. Valente clasped his blade to help himself balance against his unease. The prince asked the frightful question.

  “What does that mean?”

  Gregor hunched down keeping his voice low again.

  “People have theories, but most of them say the trees here hold many forgotten and lost souls.”

  Gregor’s grin turned sly and near-menacing. He slowly gestured to a tree.

  “These are trees of the dead, each holds these lost spirits. Each unredeemed. Betrayed. Angered.

  The royal knight clasped his hands together rubbing them in a scheming and most eerie fashion.

  “Often enough, people get lost in these woods. Weeks go by and nobody hears from them, and when most people think they are long lost: they show up. Almost like they rose from the dead.”

  Gregor moved his hands closer to his chest and beard drawing in the two that listened.

  “Though, ending up a deathwalker might be a kinder fate. Those that return are twisted and tormented. Not who they once were.”

  The knight’s grin turned near grimace as his hushed tone crept on.

  “They look the same, but they’re just not quite right. It’s as though something else is living in their body.”

  The knight chuckled, pulling back up to his full height.

  “Some say the spirits in the trees take them. They eat the souls and take their place.”

  Gregor provided and unconvincing shrug.

  “Could just be the fungus and fumes messing with their minds.”

  Valente’s knuckles imitated the whiteness of his cheeks as he clenched onto his sword. Cass did her best to not let the knight’s myths shake her, but an itch quietly danced in the back of her mind as worry spread across her forehead. The crooked trees around them curled with a new and more ominous enmity. Gregor stifled his chuckle.

  “Carry no worry
friends. They’re only tales. Now stay close, we are almost there.”

  Valente and Cass did not have to be told twice as they huddled close behind the Liosian Giant. The prince stepped carefully as he shot occasional and paranoid glances at any trees that drifted too close. The huntress hid her fear no better. She lost her bearings bumping into the prince who responded with a surprised jump and an uneasy sigh. Cass put her hand in her quiver and counted the arrows hoping the familiar task would grant her pardon from the stress. She hated spooky stories. They never ended happily. The characters were always foolish, and there was always a monster waiting to eat everyone. Romance was clearly superior.

  Crunching wood echoed off to the right of the group. Everyone paused in their steps. Each looked to the other to confirm the distinct and crackling sound was more than just the fumes. Valente constricted the hilt of his blade as he wildly looked at the cluster of trees the sound had come from. Cass instinctively drew her bow. Her eyes alert and scouring. Even Gregor placed a hand above his head prepared to draw his claymore. The knight adjusted his footing as he inhaled. Cass watched Gregor from the edge of her eye while keeping her attention to the outcropping of twisted trees. The retired knight whistled a unique tune. It was a bird whistle yet stilted in a code-like fashion. The whistle punctured through the silent Deadwood leaving no response. The smell and thickness in the air tightened around their throats.