The baron slowly climbed to his feet and tested his leg. He walked over to where Alric lay and drew his sword. “Grab him by the arms and hold him tight. Make sure he doesn’t cause me any trouble, boys.”
The guard Myron had been riding behind dismounted and took Alric’s left arm while another secured his right. “Just make sure you don’t hit us by accident,” he said.
Trumbul grinned in the moonlight. “I never do anything by accident. If I hit you, you’ve done something to deserve it.”
“If you kill me, my uncle will hunt you down no matter where you try to hide!”
Trumbul chuckled at the young prince. “Your uncle is the one who will pay us for your head. He wants you dead.”
“What? You lie!”
“Believe what you will.” The baron laughed. “Turn him over so I get a clear stroke at the back of his neck. I want a pretty trophy. I hate it when I end up having to hack and hack.”
Alric struggled but the two soldiers were stronger than he was. They twisted the prince’s arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and shoved his head to the ground.
There was the sound of snapping twigs from the thick brush by the side of the road. “It took you two a long time to kill that little monk,” Trumbul said. “But you got back just in time for the night’s finale.”
The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. “No! Stop! You can’t! Stop!” His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip, and years of wielding swords and shields in battle had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.
Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul’s blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The one nearest the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man, who held a sword in each hand.
Again the sound of twigs snapping came from the woods nearby.
“Everyone, over here!” shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.
The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.
Myron climbed out of the woods and stood in the moonlight, his rapid breath forming little clouds in the cold night air.
Alric heard Royce’s voice: “Your friends aren’t coming. They’re already dead.”
The two guards wielding swords looked at each other, then raced down the road in the direction of the Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier, holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted.
Alric could not stop shaking as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.
“They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to kill me!” he screamed.
He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.
Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from the Silver Pitcher Inn and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.
“Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”
“As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”
“Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.
“Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”
There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.
The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge and began to divvy up the loot as best he could.
“Give the elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.