The Rebel Prince

A ROAR OF SMOKE



WYNTER STOOD in the main thoroughfare of the camp and listened to the silence. The road was a humpbacked ribbon of moonlight stretching away to the deserted barricades. Behind her, Alberon’s tent slept beneath the wide-eyed moon.

Why was it so quiet? Where were all the subtle noises of a night-time camp? Wynter listened in vain for the discreet tramp and murmur of the sentries, the snores, the sighs, the coughs of sleeping men. There was none of that – just a low creaking, like a heavy sack swinging idly from a pulley rope. She looked up and down the road, but could find no source for the sound.

Alberon’s voice drifted from the tent above, his words clear, though softly spoken.

‘You are on my side, brother?’

Wynter turned and looked up the hill, waiting for Razi’s reply. None came. She knew Razi was standing up there, gazing at Alberon, his face as unreadable as a starless sky. She took a step forward, her intention to climb the hill, but that creaking noise distracted her again, and she glanced back over her shoulder.

For the first time she noticed the scaffolds that had been erected all through the camp. There were at least two for every tent, their crisscrossed timbers stark against the moon-washed brilliance of the sky. Men hung from them in sets of five, their lifeless bodies swaying in the gentle breeze. There were so many of them. How could they have escaped her attention before now? The thick ropes from which the men were suspended groaned against the wood of the scaffold bars, the source of that heavy creaking sound. Wynter blessed the shadows that hid the details; she had never been able to stomach the bloated spectacle of a hanged man’s face.

So this is why the camp is so quiet, she thought. I had best deliver this news to Alberon. I’m sure he’ll want to know that his men are dead.

A chill wind blew from nowhere, casting grit into Wynter’s face. She flung up her hands to save her eyes, gagging on the stench of gunpowder and rot. The ground vibrated beneath her feet, the familiar warning rhythm of an approaching horse, and a ghost-rider broke from the dark of the trees. As he shot through the barricades and up the road towards her, Wynter recognised him as the soldier from the ford, the man that Razi could not save. He was barely clinging to his saddle, his transparent face creased with agony. He was shouting, his mouth opening and closing in silent desperation as he galloped through the camp.

He advanced at tremendous speed. Wynter had barely time to stagger back and he was upon her. Horse and rider passed through her in a blast of icy cold. The gale from their passage howled within her, screaming in her ears, snatching the hair back from her forehead and temples, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her eyes were blinded with swirling milky light. The soldier’s voice roared in her mind, He will betray you! He will betray you! My Prince! It is a trap!

Then he was gone, and Wynter fell to her knees in the dust, her hands clawed, her eyes staring, her heart clogged in her throat.

Razi bellowed ‘no’, and Wynter turned just in time to see him fling himself between Alberon and the horse. Razi threw up his arms, turned his face away, and the messenger hit him full force.

Rider and horse exploded into cloud and dust, scattering the air with particles of light. Razi was flung into his brother’s arms, his coat and his hair beaded in phosphorescence. As Alberon staggered under Razi’s weight, Wynter saw his eyes lift to the barricades. His face fell, and Wynter spun once more to face the trees, seeking to find the source of his despair.

More riders were galloping from the forest. Their faces set, their crossbows drawn, they passed through the thick walls of the barricades, their eyes fixed on the Rebel Prince. Wynter recognised the two in front; knew them by the Merron arrows that still pierced their bodies and their blood-blackened horses. They led a charge of glowing nebulous men – victims of God knew what distant battle – all intently following the two ahead. Wynter ran towards them, screaming, ‘No! No!’ They advanced unheeding on a hurricane of dust and cold. As one, they raised their crossbows and fired. Instead of the thwack of arrows there came a belch of smoke from each bow, a roar as from a series of cannons. Trails of smoke shot outwards, passing over Wynter’s head, ruffling her hair. She spun, following the smoke as it arced its deadly trail to the hill above her.

Alberon looked up, his face illuminated by the advancing light. Razi frowned and turned, too late to see. The missiles hit and the brothers were consumed in fire.



A warhound growled in the gloom, and Wynter snapped awake, listening. The dog growled softly again, but there was no urgency to it and no other noise except for the gentle breathing of the tent’s sleeping occupants.

Christopher lay beside her, quietly dreaming. His arm was heavy across Wynter’s waist, his silver bracelets digging into her ribs. She burrowed against him, deep into the warmth of their shared bedding, and inhaled his lovely scent, trying to clear her head of the stench of gunpowder. Christopher murmured something and chuckled softly in his sleep. Wynter took his hand. The ragged ends of his woollen bracelet tickled her wrist. His slim body was warm against hers, a warm strength and a comfort to counteract the terrible chill of her dream.

Razi was asleep beside them, stretched out long and motionless, flat on his back. She watched carefully for the rise and fall of his chest – making sure that he was still alive. Gradually the horror of the dream began to fade.

The warhound growled softly again, his chain clinking. The hounds were tethered just outside the tents, dauntless guardians in the dark. Wynter shifted her head, trying to see them, but they were nothing but grey shades at the dim hollow of the door. Outside, the first robin trilled in anticipation of the day. He was a touch premature, as the sky had hardly begun to grey and the camp was lifeless and still.

Razi sighed. He dropped his arm from across his face and Wynter saw his eyes flash in the gloom. He was awake, staring at the ceiling.

‘Wyn?’ he whispered.

‘Aye.’

‘He plans making some of Lorcan’s machines and gifting them to the Midland Reformists.’

Wynter shot to her elbows. Damn it, the brothers had stayed up talking! She had assumed they would go directly to bed, but they must have continued their conversation long after she had stumbled off. She shook her head in grim frustration and cursed herself for having missed out.

‘Midlanders!’ she whispered. ‘The occupants of the blue tent, I assume?’

‘Aye,’ breathed Razi, looking up at her. ‘In return for your father’s weapons, the Midlanders have promised to keep Tamarand off Marguerite’s back. While she is usurping her father’s throne, they will use the machines against Tamarand, their own King. They hope to pummel him into signing the Reformer’s Charter of Rights and so bring an end to his terrible inquisitions.’

Wynter thought about that for a moment. She had to admit, it was quite a good plan. With Tamarand distracted by internal conflict, he would be unlikely to leap to Shirken’s aid. It was possible that Marguerite could have her father dethroned and herself crowned before anything could be done about it.

‘You know, if they carry this off, it is quite possible that the Midland Reformists will succeed in ending Tamarand’s tyranny. My father suspected that the reform had much secret support within Tamarand’s court. His people are long weary of his madness.’

Razi sighed and she barely made out the tired shake of his head in the darkness. He did not approve this toppling of yet another royal house.

‘There are Combermen here too, Razi. What of them?’

‘They are Comberman liberals, sympathisers to the Midland Reform. They come to pledge their support. Should the Midland Reform succeed, the Combermen have assured the reformists that there will be no reprisals from them.’

‘Have they the power to make such a promise? The Comberman Sect is terribly strong in Comber’s ruling classes; I find it unlikely that any liberal faction would have much foundation for . . .’ A cold possibility occurred to her and she faltered in shock. ‘Oh, Razi, is Alberon offering them a machine, too?’

Razi’s silence told her that he suspected so.

Wynter did not like the vista this unfolded. Those mighty weapons, kept firmly in Southlander control, would be a terrific boon for Jonathon’s frail little kingdom. But proliferated willy-nilly among the surrounding factions? It took all the advantages of sole possession from the Southlanders and put the kingdom right back into a position of inferior strength.

Razi shifted quietly beside her. ‘Wyn? Can you imagine those machines in the hands of the Comberman Sect or, God forbid, if Tamarand himself got his hands on one? And worse, can you imagine Marguerite Shirken and what she might do with them?’

‘I am sure Alberon must have considered this,’ she whispered. ‘Why do we not—’ Behind her, Christopher groaned and rolled onto his back. ‘Good Frith,’ he sighed. ‘What are you two yelling on about at this hour of the night?’

Wynter smiled down at him. He was barely awake. ‘Albi is convinced that King Shirken has lost his reason,’ she whispered.

‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ mumbled Christopher sleepily. ‘The old bastard has always been cracked in his brainpan.’

‘Marguerite plans to overthrow her father,’ she whispered. ‘Albi plans to support her. He thinks she will be a stabilising force in the North.’

Christopher lost his drowsy loose-limbed torpor and lay very still and quiet. ‘A stabilising force?’ he said at last. ‘That ain’t what I’d call her.’

Razi sighed. ‘Alberon also plans supplying the Midland Reformists with two of Lorcan’s war machines, in order to help them force an end to Tamarand’s inquisitions. In effect, he is plotting the usurpation of both of our father’s strongest neighbours.’

Christopher huffed dryly. ‘Does he plan on invading the Moroccos, too?’ he whispered. ‘Just for the sport of it?’

‘This is not funny,’ hissed Razi. ‘Alberon is bent on restructuring the kingdoms of Northern Europe. He will bring the entire delicate house of cards falling down around our ears.’

‘Well then,’ sighed Christopher, ‘we can all reshuffle, and start a new game.’

Razi tutted, frustration evident in his quiet voice. ‘This is no joke, Christopher.’

Christopher rose to his elbow and looked at Razi across Wynter’s back. ‘Good job I ain’t laughing, then, ain’t it? Marguerite is a bloody-handed bitch, Razi, but she ain’t no worse than her father. Alberon is simply trading one tyrant for another – what of it? And if he helps end a decade-long series of inquisitions in the Midlands, I say power to his hand.’

Christopher glanced at the sleeping Merron, then leaned across Wynter to whisper quietly down at Razi: ‘You know what?’ he whispered. ‘Leave him to it and let’s you, me and Iseult take ourselves home to the Moroccos. This is all just the same old song with a different set of notes, Razi. That’s all it will ever be. All your hard work, all the things you and Lorcan sacrificed, none of it has made one whit of difference in the end. You ain’t ever going to change anything here, Razi; it ain’t ever going to end! Ain’t you tired of it? Don’t you want some life? Don’t you want some joy?’ He glanced down at Wynter, then back to Razi, who remained silently motionless in the shadows. ‘Don’t you want something better than this, Razi?’ he asked softly. ‘Let’s go find something better than this.’

‘I cannot,’ said Razi.

Christopher growled and hung his head in aggravation.

Wynter ran her hand up his bare arm and he looked down at her, his pale face floating above hers in the dark. She resisted the urge to push his hair from his forehead in case he felt she was making a child of him. ‘This is a delicate situation, love,’ she whispered. ‘There are bridges burned between the King and his heir that only Razi can remake. Alberon has devised a wonderful plan to strengthen this kingdom, and Razi is his only means of persuading the King to listen. Without Razi’s influence—’

‘Wonderful plan?’ said Razi. He huffed under his breath. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle, Wynter. He has maintained its stability all this time, not by brute force but by diplomacy and by care. The tyrants that surround us may continue to shred and tear at their own people, and their policies may be vile beyond conscience, but my father has maintained the most cordial of relationships with them all. They make use of his port road; they benefit from the safe shipping lanes that he has established via his relationship with the Sultan. And while they may sneer at his ridiculous laws and at his scandalous humanism, they leave us be – because Father has ensured that they all profit by his continued presence on the throne and because he has never once posed a military threat to them.’ Razi shook his head. ‘Alberon will toss all that aside,’ he said. ‘He will give it all up, in the futile belief that violence will end violence.’

Razi paused. Wynter and Christopher waited in silence for him to continue. Wynter wished that she could see his face more clearly; she could get nothing from his soft, calm voice. ‘My father’s kingdom is a miracle,’ he whispered again. ‘I have no intention of aiding my brother in its destruction.’

Wynter lifted herself to her elbow, shocked at the implication of her friend’s words. ‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘you cannot mean to betray him?’

‘Betray him? Good God, Wynter. What would make you use such a word against me?’

‘Without your support, Alberon is dead, Razi. He is dead. You can’t be unaware of this!’

‘What Alberon proposes will destroy our father, Wyn. It will destroy everything! I cannot let this happen. But I will not betray him. How can you even . . . ? How can you even begun to have . . . ?’ Razi moaned in sudden desperate frustration and covered his face with his hands. He lay in total silence for a moment. Wynter was certain he had his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed tight. Finally he pushed his hands back through his tangled shock of curls and took a deep breath. When next he spoke, his voice had dropped back to its calm, even tone.

‘Once I have found a way out of this, and I have the bloody fool back home and settled down, I shall begin to dissuade him. Particularly in relation to this damned marriage – does he honestly believe that Marguerite Shirken will breed him anything but vipers? He may as well simply hand this kingdom over to her and her spawn.’ He paused again, Wynter staring down at him, her heart hammering in her chest. ‘Yes,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Once I get him home. Once I have him settled, then I shall begin to make everything clear to him. Slowly and carefully—’ ‘Razi,’ said Wynter. ‘Alberon is not some fractious baby to be dismissed to his bed with a beaker of warm milk. He is heir to the throne of this kingdom, and he is making decisions as such. Why must you dance around him so? Talk to the man! Talk to him! Give him the respect of sharing your opinion.’

Razi twisted to face her. He went to speak, but Christopher shushed him suddenly, his attention on the door. One of the warhounds had growled again, this time with intent. The three friends stilled, listening carefully.

The air had brightened, and they saw the misty shapes of the great hounds standing to attention outside the door. One of them trotted from sight, its long chain clinking gently. There was another low chorus of growls as the remaining dog-shadows lowered their heads. They were all looking in the direction of the Midland tent. Quietly taking their weapons, the friends pushed back their covers and crawled to the door. Behind them, the Merron women stirred.

Christopher crouched at the edge of the door and peered out. Wynter and Razi crept to his side, strapping on their swords. The Midland quarters were dark and motionless in the morning gloom. From this position, Wynter could only see the back of the tent. There were soldiers surrounding it, their faces bored, their attitudes weary, as if they’d been standing guard all night.

Hallvor came to kneel behind Wynter, her eyes on the soldiers. The healer gestured the dogs to her side and they came reluctantly. She leaned to whisper in Christopher’s ear. ‘Cén fáth na saighdiúirí, a Choinín?’

He shrugged and shook his head. ‘She wants to know what they’re doing,’ he murmured, but before Razi could answer, a cultured Midland accent rang out from the front of the tent.

It was a man, very affronted and annoyed. ‘What in the name of God are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Have you lost your reason? Let me pass!’

Oliver’s voice drifted quietly across the air. ‘Get back inside, Presbyter, please.’

‘I must attend my Lady’s need! Tell your men—’ ‘Shut your face,’ said Oliver wearily. ‘Get inside, sit on your damned arse, and await the Prince’s pleasure.’

Wynter met Razi’s eye. ‘Let us go see,’ she suggested, and before Razi could speak, she ducked from the tent and out into the cold air.