The Rebel Prince

VIGIL



‘I NOT BE long,’ rasped Sól. ‘The mule will not to have gone far, then I ride to end of pass, try find good way down for to bring the horses.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Wynter, her eyes on Razi’s body far below.

Sólmundr glanced at Christopher, who was just finished buttoning his jacket. ‘You all right for slope, luichín?’

Christopher nodded and pulled his cloak around him, tying the stays with shaking hands.

Sól grunted uncertainly. ‘I be with you soon,’ he said. ‘You not do nothing till I with you, tá go maith? You not move him or nothing till I get there?’

Satisfied with their compliance, the warrior heaved himself painfully into the saddle and clucked Ozkar on. His own horse limped behind at the end of a lead line, and Boro ranged ahead, following the scattered trail of goods left by the fleeing pack mule.

Christopher pushed himself to unsteady feet. Wynter glanced back, then put her foot over the edge. ‘I’m going ahead,’ she said. ‘You take your time.’

She started down without waiting for him to join her, dropping almost immediately to her arse and angling her descent to try to maintain some control. It was hellishly unstable. She scrabbled crab-wise down the slope, digging her heels and hands into the harsh ground in an effort to control her speed. Rocks and loose pebbles showered down on her from above as Christopher began his own descent. Wynter forced her attention from Razi and scanned the narrow gully, looking for the horses, and the Loup-Garou that Christopher had felt certain he’d left wounded but still alive among the rocks.

The Wolf that had carried Razi over the edge lay sprawled and unmoving on the opposite side of the gully floor, its neck twisted unnaturally, its long dark hair covering its face. Even dead, even naked and vulnerably human, it frightened Wynter by its presence. She wished that Sól had gone down ahead of her with his sword and taken this Wolf ’s head from its shoulders, the way he had all the others. Her eyes kept switching anxiously between it and Razi.

Halfway down, there was an abrupt increase in the hail of rocks from above, and Christopher yelled as he lost control of his speed. He hurtled down the hill towards her, and Wynter turned her face away as he sped past in a stinging spray of stones, trailing dust and a fluid litany of curses behind him. He tumbled once, starfished frantically onto his belly, and spun a slow, lazy circle as he reached the lower slopes. Wynter scrambled after him, only slightly more in control of her descent, and they both slid to a halt in a drizzle of stones and dislodged soil.

They got to their feet, sand and small rocks dribbling from every fold of their clothes, their bloodstained faces now white with dust. They stood stock-still for a moment, gazing at their friend’s motionless body. Then Wynter bolted for Razi.

Christopher ran to the Loup-Garou, drawing his katar as he went. He swung the sword above his head, and Wynter turned her back as he brought it down. She had had enough of blood for today, even Loup-Garou blood, and though she wanted the creature disposed of, she could not witness the deciding blow. As Christopher’s sword separated the Wolf ’s head from its shoulders, Wynter knelt at Razi’s side. He was breathing, but her heart squeezed at his lack of movement. She hesitated, desperately wanting to help but not knowing where to start.

‘Help me fix his cloak,’ she whispered as Christopher’s scuffed boots came into view. ‘It’s all twisted around his head.’

‘Is he alive?’ he said, his voice curiously flat.

At her nod, Christopher fell to his knees as if his legs were unhinged. He flung his sword onto the gravel behind him and knelt over their friend, his hands poised. ‘What do we do?’ he cried. ‘Sól said not to move him!’

Wynter tugged Razi’s cloak from its uncomfortable tangle around his neck and pulled it down to cover his body, tucking it in around him as if he were a child at bedtime. He was utterly limp, his dark face slack. Apart from some raw patches on his cheek and jaw, he seemed otherwise unharmed.

‘What do we do?’ cried Christopher again.

Wynter looked up at the empty path, praying for Sól’s return. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. Clenching her hands in the fabric at Razi’s chest, she forced herself not to say the words that sprang most easily to mind in such a situation: Get Razi. Call Razi. He’ll know how to fix it.



‘He not wake at all?’

Wynter shook her head, watching while Sólmundr pushed his fingers into Razi’s hair, palpated the back of Razi’s head, pressed Razi’s temples, squeezed his skull.

‘He not bring up sick?’ murmured the warrior. ‘He not move? He not make sound?’

Again, Wynter shook her head. Sólmundr ran his hands down Razi’s ribs, felt along his arms, squeezed the bones of Razi’s legs. Then he sat back, gazing down into Razi’s unresponsive face. ‘He not broken,’ he said quietly. ‘He seem good.’ He smiled reassuringly at Wynter. ‘You not to worry, a luch. We must just to wait. Soon Tabiyb will to wake.’

‘It’s getting on to dark,’ said Christopher. ‘We need to take shelter. I can’t find the other Loup-Garou body. I’m fair sure it’s dead, but still, it means there could be two of them out there.’

Sólmundr nodded gravely. ‘Come on,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘You help for to carry him.’

Sól insisted on a fire. He insisted on hot food. He made antiseptic tea and washed out their wounds. They huddled together in the cramped space between leaning boulders as the wind moaned and growled its way down the pass and the light seeped from the sky. Razi did not so much as stir. He seemed dead, lying there swaddled in his cloak, and Christopher sat with his hand on his chest, staring out past the tiny circle of fragile light as the gritty dusk turned to night. Wynter sewed her jacket. Sólmundr bound the terrible bites on Boro’s legs.

‘Tomorrow you help me tie up the mare,’ he said softly, his face intent as he tended the hound. ‘I must try burn shut tear in her shoulder.’

‘It will abscess,’ murmured Christopher. ‘I’ll sew it up for you and we can pack it in mud to keep the flies off.’

Out in the restless night, something big came clattering down the rocky path, and the three of them froze, their hands reaching for their swords. The sound of hooves echoed from the gully walls and they heard Ozkar whinny in greeting as horses approached the camp. Wynter crawled to the edge of the firelight and peered around the rocks. Razi’s big mare came trotting from the shadows, Christopher’s sturdy little horse at her side. Their saddles sat crooked on their backs, their tack and equipment trailing behind. Wearily, they joined their herd-mates at the highline, their shapes merging in the semi-dark.

‘Jesu Christi,’ she whispered and crept out to check their condition.

Christopher came out to guard her, his eyes on the shadows, his sword in his hand.

‘They are in rude health,’ breathed Wynter in awe, releasing the poor creatures from their tangled burdens. ‘They have hardly a scratch!’

Christopher nodded tightly and gestured that she hurry up. The wind had died to a gusting breeze and a narrow moon cast ink-well shadows from rock and crevasse. His eyes roamed this darkness constantly, his bruised face grim.

As Wynter hoisted the saddles from the horses’ tired shoulders, a howl rose up from the rocks above them. Long, protracted, filled with loss, it was the lonely call of the remaining Loup-Garou. There was no threat in the sound, only sorrow, only pain, and as Wynter laid the saddles on the ground and backed carefully to Christopher’s side, the Wolf ’s voice fell to a sobbing moan and died away. The horses trembled and huddled a little closer but showed no greater signs of fear than that. Boro did not even growl.

Christopher took Wynter’s arm, tugging her backwards, and they edged their way slowly to the fire. The howl rose up again, moaning its hurt to the moon.

‘It’s wounded,’ whispered Christopher. ‘It won’t attack.’ And he pulled her back down between the leaning rocks and into the warm radiance of the firelight.



The night turned to morning. The morning spun towards noon.



Sólmundr hunkered down in the opening between the rocks and laid his sword across his knees. He squinted against the midday sun as he scanned the bluff above, the breeze tousling at his loose hair and tugging his cloak. ‘We not find them,’ he rasped. ‘There is signs of at least one, moving about in the rocks, but I not find body of other. It might to be still alive but I doubt it. It fall very far.’

‘It likely fell down between the rocks,’ said Wynter dully. ‘It’s nothing but meat for crows by now.’

Sólmundr ceased his restless scanning of the skyline and peered in at her. He didn’t ask how Razi was; any fool could tell that the young man’s condition hadn’t changed. Sucking his teeth, the warrior met Wynter’s eyes, the obvious question clear in his face. She sat beside her motionless friend and stared back at him.

‘We wait,’ she said.

Sólmundr sighed, and his eyes dropped to the diplomatic folder lying across Wynter’s knee. For a moment Wynter thought he would speak; that he would be the one to say the very thing she was thinking. But the warrior just nodded, rose to his feet and went to help Christopher tend to the horses. Wynter frowned in misery and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands closing around the leather covers of the folder.

This was day six of their ten-day journey. Alberon was at this very moment travelling the lower slopes somewhere with his entourage of men, already five days into his own trek home. Every moment that they delayed here was a moment stolen from Alberon. Regardless of their circumstances, the unheeding clock of their plan ticked relentlessly on. If Razi did not get to the castle in time to appease the King, if Alberon turned up in advance of his brother – the consequences would be catastrophic.

We can afford one or two days’ delay, thought Wynter bleakly. Certainly we can afford that! Even if Razi took two full days to recover, they would still make it home three days ahead of Alberon. Three days would be plenty of time for a man like Razi to persuade the King. Wouldn’t it?

Beside her, Razi breathed on, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was alive. Wynter clutched the diplomatic folder to her chest and willed him to wake.



Noon passed. The sun set. Night crept in once again.



‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Christopher softly. ‘I think you should consider it.’

‘No.’

‘But it makes perfect sense! Why must you be so damned exasperating?’

‘In what way does it make sense, Christopher Garron? Tell me how, by any stretch of anyone’s fertile imagination, does it make sense for you to turn up at the castle bearing papers from the Rebel Prince?’

Presumably in some kind of effort to prevent his brain exploding, Christopher clutched his head between his hands and squeezed. ‘I will explain that the Lord Razi is wounded in the hills and that I am speaking on his behalf,’ he grated. ‘Sól and Boro will protect you and Raz until the soldiers come to find you. It’s. Perfectly. Reasonable.

’ ‘The Wolves will kill you.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘The Wolves will kill you, and if they do not, the King’s men will.’

Christopher scrubbed his face with his hands and muttered darkly in Hadrish. Sól sighed and threw some dried horse dung onto the fire. The moon was dark, the sky heavy with clouds. Beyond their little ring of firelight, the night pressed thick and impenetrable, the air made unbearably cold by the wind.

The Loup-Garou howled low and mournful in the rocks above, and Sólmundr grimaced out into the darkness. ‘I going to kill that cac!’ he hissed.

The damnable creature had remained hidden all through the daylight hours, but as soon as darkness had fallen, it had resumed its melancholy song. Boro growled, but Sólmundr refused to let the big dog be drawn out into the rocks. He did not trust that the Loup-Garou really was alone.

‘Iseult,’ persisted Christopher, ‘look at me. Lass, look at me!’

She looked at him, her face set.

‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t let him down. What will he say if those papers don’t get through? What’ll he think if we continue to just sit here on our arses and let precious time dribble through our fists? At least if I go ahead there’s a chance of setting things straight. At the very least, it might make their da think twice about shooting off arrows when Alberon rides into sight.’

Christopher waited for her reply, his face earnest in the unsteady light. He was so utterly convinced that he could make it past the gate guards and into the King’s presence that Wynter wanted to kiss him. Razi’s chest rose and fell beneath her hand, their friend as still and as silent as the day before.

‘If Razi has not woken by tomorrow,’ she said, ‘we will strap him to his horse and finish the journey together. None of us goes on without him.’

Sólmundr glanced up at her, but said nothing. He didn’t have to point out how risky that journey might be for Razi; they all knew it.

‘It’s the only way,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what the people may think of him, Razi is still his Royal Highness the Prince, heir to the Southland throne. In his company, no one will prevent our access to the King. Without him, what are we? Nothing but a Northern savage, a gypsy thief and a disgraced murderess, carrying between them the incendiary papers of a rebel prince already declared mortuus in vita. Forgive me, but if any of us attempted entering the castle without Razi by our side, we would be dead before we set foot on the moat bridge. Even if Razi . . .’ She paused, the words too hard to articulate. Then she forced herself to go on. ‘Even should he die, we shall still have to bring him with us. Without him we have no hope. With him, there is at least the slimmest of chances that our story will be heard.’

She could not look into their faces, though she could imagine Christopher’s expression well enough.

‘That’s what you want to do?’ he said. ‘You want to strap Razi to his horse like a bundle of luggage, and offer him up to his da as if he were goods being exchanged for favour?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to trek him across these mountains, regardless of what it does to his health?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

There was a long, bitter silence, and she finally glanced up. ‘Please don’t look at me like that,’ she said softly. ‘Please, Christopher. Don’t.’ He shook his head and tightened his jaw, and she set her face against his anger. ‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice harder than she would ever have wished it to be. ‘If the choice were given to Razi himself, what would he do?’ She looked from Christopher to Sólmundr, challenging them to tell her anything but the truth. They dropped their eyes and she nodded. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ she said, ‘all of us. So get some sleep, it is my turn to watch him.’