A commotion erupted in the trees. Alric heard Myron cry for help followed by the sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Another scream ended as quickly as it began, cut abruptly short. The silence returned. Still holding his leg, Trumbul cursed the monk. “That will teach the little wretch!”
“You all right, Trumbul?” asked the guard holding Alric’s horse.
“I’m fine, just give me a second. Damn, that little monk kicked hard.”
“He won’t be kicking anyone anymore,” another soldier added.
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 was 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. “About time you two climbed out of there,” Trumbul said as the two guards returned from killing the monk. “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 battle wielding swords and shields 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 nearest to 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.
“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.
“Your friends aren’t coming,” Alric heard Royce’s voice. “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 into the trees. Before Hadrian could close the gap between them, the man screamed. A moment later, Myron exited from the trees, dragging a bloodied sword behind him. He was pale, and a sickened look covered his face. When he reached the rest of the party, he dropped the sword, fell to his knees, and began to sob.
Alric could not stop shaking, as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce came over and 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 of the division of loot and began to divvy it up as best he could.
“Give the half-elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.
“What?” The innkeeper asked stunned. “You want us to give him a horse? Are you sure? I mean most of these men don’t have a good horse.”
Drake quickly cut in, “Listen, we all fought equally tonight. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.
The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm, but his eyes smoldered.
“What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, ’em is his horses right? His soldiers was a ridin’ ’em. We should ask him to decide…okay?”
There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He came within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was still crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back to the crowd.
“Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, and coldly. “They are my Royal Protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys will be executed.” There was quiet in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”
Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then helped Myron up. The monk was silent now and walked in a daze. He no longer looked around; instead, he focused on his blood-covered hands. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.
As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-elf gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I will hold everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once—it will be legal.”