Prince of Thorns

They call the castle “The Haunt.” When you ride up the valley of an evening, with the sun going down behind the towers, you can see why. The place has that classic brooding malice about it. The high windows are dark, the town below the gates lies in shadow, the flags hang lifeless. It brings to mind an empty skull. Without the cheery grin.

“So the plan is?” Makin asked.

I gave him a smile. We nosed the horses up the road, past a wagon creaking beneath a load of barrels.

“We seem to have arrived in time for tourney,” Makin said. “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

“Well, we’ve come for a test of strength haven’t we?” I’d been trying to make out the pennants on the pavilions lining the east side of the tourney field. “Better to keep incognito for now though.”

“So about this plan—” The scattered thunder of approaching hooves cut him off.

We looked back over our shoulders. A tight knot of horsemen was closing fast, half a dozen, the leader in full plate armour, long shadows thrown behind them.

“Nice bit of tourney plate.” I turned my nag in the road.

“Jorg—” It was Makin’s day for getting cut off.

“Make way!” The lead horseman bellowed loud enough, but I chose not to hear him.

“Make way, peasants!” He pulled up rather than go around. Five riders drew alongside him, house-troops in chainmail, their horses lathered.

“Peasants?” I knew we looked down-at-heel, but we hardly counted as peasants. My fingers found the empty space where my sword should hang. “Who might we be clearing a path for, now?” I recognized their colours, but asked by way of insult.

The man on the knight’s left spoke up. “Sir Alain Kennick, heir to the county of Kennick, knight of the long—”

“Yes, yes.” I held up a hand. The man fell silent, fixing me with a pale eye from beneath the rim of his iron helm. “Heir to the Barony of Kennick. Son of the notoriously blubbery Baron Kennick.” I rubbed at my chin hoping that the grime there might pass as stubble in the half-light. “But these are Renar lands. I thought the men of Kennick weren’t welcome here.”

Alain drew his steel at that, four foot of Builder-steel cutting a bloody edge from the sunset.

“I’ll not be debated in the road by some peasant boy!” His voice held a whine to it. He lifted his faceplate, then took the reins.

“I heard that the Baron and Count Renar made up their differences after Marclos got himself killed,” Makin said. I knew he’d have his hand on the flail we inherited with the horses. “Baron Kennick withdrew his accusations that Renar was behind the burning of Mabberton.”

“Actually it was me that burned Mabberton,” I said. I had to wonder, though. I might have been the one to put torch to thatch. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But whose good idea was it? Corion’s perhaps.

“You?” Alain snorted.

“I had a hand in Marclos’s death too,” I said. I kept his eyes and edged my horse closer. Without weapon or armour I didn’t present much of a threat.

“I heard that the Prince of Ancrath turned Marclos’s column with a dozen men,” Makin added.

“Did we have a full dozen, Sir Makin?” I asked in my best court voice. I kept my eyes on Alain and ignored his men. “Perhaps we did. Well, no matter, I like these odds better.”

“What are—” Alain glanced to either side where the hedgerow seethed with possibilities.

“You’re worried about an ambush, Alain?” I asked. “You think Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath and the captain of his father’s guard can’t take six Kennick dogs in the road?”

Whatever Alain might think, I could tell his men had heard their fill of Norwood stories. They’d heard of the Mad Prince and his road hounds. They’d heard how ragged warriors burst from the ruins, stood their ground, and broke a force ten times their number.

Something grunted in the gloom to our right. If Alain’s men had any doubt that they were already targeted by bandits in the shadows, the grunt of a small forager hunting grubs was enough to convince them otherwise.

“Now! Attack!” I yelled it for the benefit of my non-existent ambush party, and flung myself from my saddle, dragging Alain off his horse.

The fight went out of Alain as soon as we hit the sod, which was good because the fall knocked all the wind out of me, and a clash of heads set me seeing stars.

I heard the whack of Makin’s flail and the thump of retreating hooves. With a heave and a clatter I disentangled myself from Alain.

“Best get out of here quick, Jorg.” Makin was heading back after the briefest of pursuits. “Won’t take them long to work out we’re alone.”

I found Alain’s sword. “They won’t be back.”

Makin frowned at me. “Head-butting a helmed knight scrambled your brains?”

I rubbed at the sore spot, fingers coming away bloody.

“We’ve got Alain. A hostage or a corpse. They don’t know which.”