“Look my boy, see how they crumble before our might.”
“Golly father, why must so many die?” The young boy, who was Prince Melwas of Norme, was feeling melancholic, for he never inherited his father's psychopathy.
“They die for you. They die for me. They die for our glory, that we might conquer the whole world,” said King Bagdemagus, who then suddenly struck the boy on the side of his head. “And where did you learn that word, 'golly'? Sometimes, Melwas, you talk like a village farm-girl.”
“I don't want to see them die.” Melwas let go of the reigns and covered his eyes.
“You'll watch dammit!” The oversized man batted at the child's hands. The elephant stumbled and Melwas fell off.
“The Prince!” another man cried, as Melwas tumbled down the hillside.
“Not to worry,” said the King, who had returned to watching the fighting.
“The enemy retreats. One of them has grabbed the prince!” the man cried, again.
“I said not to worry. I've got another one back home. Let's finish this conquest. Sarnia's resistance dwindles.”
* * * * *
In the vast deserts of Ancona there stood a solitary fortress, slowly being whittled away by sand and time...
“Draco!” a young boy called, his voice echoing.
Draco didn't move. He looked out from an arrow slit in one of the large empty halls of Fort Sand. His thick combed grey hair gleamed in the sunlight. His face was too smooth for a man his age, though nobody had ever seen him shave. He was a cunningly patient man, and as the boy neared, he continued to stare out with detached stillness.
“Draco, what are you looking at?”
“I'm watching as the shifting sands slowly bury me in my tomb.”
“Draco, I'm worried about the trial.” The young boy sniffled and panted.
“Why are you always sniffling, you slimy creature?” Draco asked, still not turning to face the boy.
“I ran all over looking for you. I couldn't sleep at all last night because I couldn't stop thinking about the trial. Haven't you seen it before? Can't you tell me anything?”
“Now Nort, you know I can't play favorites. The trial is an ancient and sacred rite of passage. It wouldn't do any good if I told you all about it, would it?”
Nort huffed and kicked at the floor. When pouting failed to elicit the desired reaction, Nort dramatically walked up to the wall, sighed, and threw himself against it. He looked up at Draco's face; nothing moved except the eyes, which shifted back and forth as he scanned the landscape.
“You're not a very helpful mentor,” said Nort.
“I'm not your mentor,” Draco replied, flatly. “I'm an old man you've latched onto who can't shake you free.”
Nort had long since grown accustomed to Draco's prickly nature. Besides, he had more anxieties he wanted to share. He bounced on his toes, eager to say the next thing: “Benwick kept going on about how dangerous it is and how initiates die and how I could never pass it.”
“You ought to tell him he's a stupid idiot.”
“Oh no, I really couldn't.”
“You ought to punch him in the face.”
“Goodness! I thought—”
“Thought what?”
“Sister Dornar says that a gentleman is never to—” the old man interrupted, breaking out in cool, sibilant laughter.
“You are no gentleman Nort,” Draco said, finally turning to look at him. “You ought to sneak up behind Benwick and sock him right in the back of the neck. That'd show him.”
“Golly,” said Nort. “How can it be that there have there been no recruits in the three years that I have been here? If there were more recruits, at least someone else could do the trial with me.”
Draco knelt down and put his hand on Nort's shoulder. “Nort, it's time you learn the truth about Fort Sand,” he said. “Nobody cares about this shit-hole. It's not close enough to the Northern border to ever spot a Norman invasion and it's too dry out here for a dragon's to nest.”
“Then why not station us elsewhere? Why is it manned at all?”
“Because it was built.”
Noon bell rang.
“Oh, my chores!” Nort exclaimed and ran off to the kitchen.
Draco returned to the arrow slit.
* * * * *
Nort arrived in the kitchen to see Newberry preparing lunch. Newberry was the most beautiful woman Nort had ever seen on account of her being just about the only woman he had ever seen. There was old Sister Dornar of course, and then there were also the wives and concubines of his father's that were around when he was a prince of Norme, but he unfortunately hadn't yet realized that women were beautiful at that time.
Lunch was bread, dried meat and cheese, and some vegetables from the garden. He saw that the tomatoes needed to be cut, and started on that.
Newberry checked him with her hip. “You're late.”
“Sorry, I was talking with Draco about the test,” said Nort.
“Are you nervous?” A smile touched Newberry's lips. She seemed to always be smiling about something Nort didn't understand. It filled him with jealously for imagined plots far more interesting than anything he could ever produce. At least something he had done had caused this smile, even if he didn't know what.
“I am! This is the most important day of my life. If I fail this test, I'll never be allowed to do anything but chores for the rest of my life.”
“Oh Nort,” said Newberry, who then tousled his hair and then picked up the lunch tray and brought it into the mess hall. Nort's heart sank. There was so much more he wanted to tell her, but he felt it had been to soon, and now it was too late. This particular demarcation of time was well known to him.
Nort followed into the mess hall where the Captain, Sister Dornar, and Benwick were waiting, hungry for their meal.
“Ah, a fine meal prepared by our fine chefs,” said the Captain. Of course, they always ate the same thing for lunch, and Captain Foot always had the same thing to say upon its arrival.
Nort dished out the vegetables and took his seat.
“Captain Foot, tell us about a time you almost died,” said Benwick.
The Captain's seat creaked as he shifted his massive body to turn and look down at Benwick. He stared down at the boy, trying to beam some shame into him, but Benwick's grinning face remained undeterred.
“There was once a time,” the Captain began, “many years ago, when the Normans still believed they would conquer the world. They were raiding in Lamark.”
“But they were repelled, right?” asked Benwick.
“Don't interrupt the story you asked for,” said the Captain. “Before they were repelled, however, they had routed the Lamarkians and encircled them in their forest home. But the trees of Lamark are tall, and one skilled in the craft of traveling the canopy can pass undetected to those below.”
The Captain looked up to see Draco slip into the room. Draco took a seat and began eating, and the Captain continued his story.
“The Lamarkian tree runners were able to sneak past the Norman lines and send word for aid to its neighbors. Ancona responded. We rode with equal parts haste and caution, but we could have used half the haste and twice the caution. The Normans are quick learners, and in their own way they began to master the verticality of the Lamarkian forest. Unbeknownst to us, they loomed over our convoy. We were ambushed.” A look of great consternation came over the Captain. The room grew uncomfortable, but they stayed silent, eager to hear the rest of the tale.
The Captain continued, “Well, Draco can tell the rest of the story. You must have been there. You said you were previously stationed in Lamark.”
“Yes, but I was away at that time,” Draco spoke between bites. “Part of a diplomatic detachment,” he said, “in the Dragon Bog.”
“I didn't know Lamark sought an alliance with the Bog People.”
“Neither did they. They chased us out and we never returned.”
“I see.”
“So what happened in Lamark? You haven't finished the story, Captain,” said Benwick.
“We repelled them,” said the Captain. Benwick resigned to eating his meal.
“I so wish I could see the trees of Lamark, or the Dragon Bog,” said Newberry, who had gotten up to look at an old faded map of the Southern States that was hanging from the wall. “There's so much out there. I was born in the Plains, and now I shall die in a neighboring valley, under the sun of the Anconan desert.” She continued to stare at the map.
Newberry eventually returned to the table to finish her meal. The Captain pulled at his thick moustache and did his best to endure Benwick's renewed pestering, while Draco let Sister Dornar chew his ear off. Sister Dornar was auld. Auld is like old, but older. She could go on about her research for hours. The Church studied dragons. It was her job to map out the regions around the fort, searching for whatever information the Church deemed necessary. Before she could do any fieldwork, she had to review all the existing topographical studies of the region, going back centuries. Nort had been in her room—he liked her company when he had reading of his own to get through—and he had seen the size of the stack of papers she was going through. He thought she would surely die before she finished.
Nort couldn't eat, finding he was too anxious for the coming test.
* * * * *
Everyone gathered in the courtyard to watch Nort, except Sister Dornar, who was in her room. She rarely took time away from her studies, but, owing to the importance of the occasion, she did peer out from her window from time to time to give Nort an encouraging nod and wave. Nort thought she looked concerned, which made him concerned.
The test involved making it across a wooden structure that consisted of balancing beams, tightropes, hanging bars, and swinging barges. Nort scaled the structure and looked on at his certain doom, as Captain Foot began pulling a rope to build momentum in the large swinging barges.
The Captain signaled Nort to begin. Nort warily tested the balance beam with a toe to gauge its stability. He cleared the beam by crawling on all fours. He approached each challenge in this manner, apprehensive to commit to any move that he wasn't completely certain about. He progressed with success, but so slowly that his audience began to get bored. Still, Nort knew that making it across was all that mattered.
“Hurry up Nort, you fucking pussy!” shouted Benwick.
The Captain looked at Benwick, considering how best to admonish him, when a yawn came over him, and he felt that by the end of it, the time had passed.
“The Normans are here!” an unrecognized voice shouted from across the courtyard. Everyone looked over to see an interloper letting himself through the Fort's main gate. The man rode a horse. He had slicked hair under a small feathered cap, and he wore a burgundy cape. He had a sword at his hip. He was accompanied by six men, also riding horses and wearing swords.
Nort, who was on the last leg of the test, became distracted by the newcomers and was blasted by a large swinging wooden barge that launched him off the platform and into the sand. Nobody seemed to notice, save for the intruder, who smirked at Nort.
Captain Foot and the others were tense.
“It was only a joke, fellas, there are no Normans here. My name is Giles. Miles Giles. Envoy Extraordinaire and right-hand man of the great Captain Heringale.”
Captain Foot walked over to the newcomer. “Captain Foot,” he said, extending an arm.
“Sir.” The envoy spoke loudly and performatively for all to hear, “I bring news of the great triumphs and dastardly doings of Captain Heringale and his men, the finest soldiers in all the States.”
Captain Foot put one finger up, beckoning a pause from the man who seemed on the point of a lengthy tirade. “Draco, Benwick, help these men with their horses.”
Benwick began leading the mercenaries to the stables. Draco approached Giles. He helped the man down from his horse and took his reins. He clasped his hand around Giles' shoulder and neck and pulled him in and said, “You're thick with the smell of fear, like an animal that's been hunted for days and hasn't slept a wink,” leaning in so only the Envoy could hear him.
“Giles, Newberry, come with me,” the Captain's words broke the envoy out of his confusing interaction with Draco.
The Captain looked at Nort for a moment, as if thinking of what task the small boy could perform. Then, remembering why they were all out here in the courtyard in the first place, asked, “Nort, did you complete the test?”
“Yes,” Nort lied.
“Good. You go to your room.”
* * * * *
Newberry held the door to the Captain's office open for the two men and followed them in. She had to continually check herself to stop from giggling with excitement. What could the envoy be here for? Perhaps Fort Sand was finally to be abandoned, and they would be repositioned somewhere that had seasons, or people. Then she had the thought that something awful may have happened. Maybe some horrible tragedy had occurred. Oh, but she didn't care, only let it be interesting. Let there be war and mass conscription. Let there be besieged and pillaged towns that they must fly to the aid of. Let the Normans kill the Anconan emperor so they could be march in a mission of revenge. Let a great dragon horde loose an apocalypse on humanity. How she loathed being stuck in this dump with its endless monotony. She and wanted so badly for something to happen.
Captain Foot showed Miles and Newberry to their seats. He let the silence build his preferred atmosphere of awkward uncertainty. Newberry grew impatient at the Captain's habitual posturing. The Envoy began to speak when the Captain cut him off with a motion of his hand.
“Alright, Envoy Miles Giles,” he began in a slow drawl, “what’s Tantivy got us in for? Another suicide march through the Plains?”
Miles laughed. The Captain did not. The misread made the Envoy hesitate, but he found the charismatic buffoon in himself and carried on. “I have come to you directly from the frontier, bearing word from Captain Heringale himself.”
“I expected orders from Tantivy.”
“Heringale is a great captain—a man of action—and his reputation precedes him.”
“Does it?”
“Sir,” the Envoy paused uncertainly, having expected Heringale's name alone to be enough to blow sandals off these dust huffers. Newberry looked between Heringale and Giles, feeling the tension building between the men. She would never forgive the Captain if he ruined this.
Giles regained his composure. If he had give them the whole ball of wax, so be it. He began again. “The Battle for the Gap. Eighteen thousand casualties. I was there. I was by his side during the Catalonian Civil War. Thirty thousand casualties, and he commanded forces on both sides. In Manilla, Heringale was hired to protect the royal family during the revolts of the Great Famine. Sixty thousand perished.” He let the awesome figure sit in the air, knowing that he had his audience captive now. “I saw them clawing and scraping at the walls of the great Manilese castle, but Heringale bravely brought down boiling water and stones on them, saving the life and virtue of Viscountess Onora, who went on to marry your very own Anconan Emperor. Heringale is a brave man, and a shrewd commander, who has close friends from the furthest reaches of the Plains, to the highest rung of the imperial strata. The honor has been bestowed upon him to command the largest unit in the entire Confederate Army. It would be an honor for anyone to serve under him.” The heat and the effort of Giles' performance had drenched him in sweat. He panted heavily.
“What rank is Heringale?”
“Sir?” Giles' was wiping sweat from his brow, not fully following the meaning of the captain's query. He gleamed no information from the Captain's placid stare. “He's a captain, sir.”
“And what rank am I?”
“A captain, sir.” Giles gulped and rubbed at his chest and neck. The damned heat.
“I don’t take orders from Heringale.”
“Yes but—”
“I take orders from General Tantivy.”
“Yes but—”
“Heringale isn’t Tantivy.”
Giles had become flustered. He was sniffling as his insides melted and he searched his pockets frantically for his handkerchief. Newberry was about exploding with frustration at her captain's meandering game of verbal snooker.
“Sir,” said Newberry, “the envoy has come a long way. Surely we should hear him out.”
Miles perked up at the first positive reaction he had received. He looked at Captain Foot, who's face hadn't changed. He took this as consent to continue: “Only now, Captain Heringale, with me by his side, succeeded in a most brave expedition. We slipped through Norman lines, and—with great guile and craft—ambushed one of their convoys. Through this cunning and dastardly mission, we absconded with the yearly tribute from one of the largest Norman colonies.”
Newberry just about leapt out of her chair, before The Captain raised a palm to temper her.
“Were there any casualties?” the Captain asked.
“Well, yes, only a few hundred.”
“On which side?”
“Both, I suppose, including dozens of Normans, certainly.”
“Where is the tribute now?”
“With our encampment, outside the desert. Our army does not have the supplies to tread this far into the desert. Your fort is well stocked, I presume.”
“Why not go west, to Lamark?”
“We feared ambush along the main road. Straight South was the wisest course, to build as much distance between us and them.”
“With a forced march the Normans could not have mustered an army and caught up to you. But nevermind that. You're here now,” the Captain sat back in his chair and inhaled deeply, “and you want to station your army at my fort.”
“If the Normans give chase, they will face Heringale and yourself in the fort, and the Lamarkian reinforcements on their rear. It would be the single greatest blow against their army in history.
“Yes, Captain, precisely. Heringale also requires you to scout to the east, and see if the Normans are invading our flank.”
“Very well, Envoy Giles, you will have Fort Sand and every hospitality she has to offer.”
“The history books will remember your part in this, Captain.”
“I'll remember it too. Let's hope I don't regret it. We'll ride out to your encampment at first light.”
“Captain Heringale's soldiers will have this place in shape in no time. It will be like a real fort.”
“Mercenaries. Not soldiers,” Captain Foot corrected. “The United States Confederate Army has no soldiers.”
“Are you, too, a simple mercenary, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Nevermind this,” said Newberry, “Envoy Giles, why don’t I show you to your quarters so you can get some rest before tomorrow's journey.”
“That would be lovely, my dear.” Giles stood up, his back and thighs making a wet peeling sound as they parted from the chair. He left a small puddle behind.
Nort was skulking in the entryway to his room, keeping an eye on the Captain's room and waiting for the meeting to end so that he could ask Newberry what was going on. But when they emerged from the room, Newberry was walking alongside the Envoy, leaning into him, staring intently at his face, and smiling. She opened a door to one of the empty rooms down the hall, and they both went in together, closing the door behind.
Nort ran away to go sit in the Acacia tree. It was the only tree for several miles. Nort thought looked it like a big broccoli. Nort didn't like broccoli, and he didn't like whatever the hell was going on with Newberry and that high class jigalo in that room.
The tree was just outside the fort's walls, in a small garden that the Sister maintained. Nort sat up in the highest thick branch, in a little flattened nook that he found made the best sitting spot in the tree.
Nort sighed. Why was he like this? Newberry would never like a little twerp like him when there were people like Miles Giles in the world. Giles was tall and strong and older and important in the world. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, remembering that she even liked Benwick that way once. Fucking Benwick.
Nort sighed again. But he knew he was stupid for thinking about Newberry so much. He had thought this through many times. It didn't matter though. It was no good trying to think away the feelings. Sometimes they laughed together. Sometimes she would bump him with her hip when they washed dishes, or she would tousle his hair. Sometimes he would just watch her face from across the room and wonder if she knew he was looking. He could see her eyes and smile now.
Every second he sat in the tree was a second away from everything in the world that made him feel small and weak. Soon he would be tired enough to sleep and then he'd have made it through one more day.
Eventually he saw Benwick approaching. Fucking Benwick. Benwick looked up at Nort for a moment but didn't say anything. Instead he just kind of leaned against the tree and looked down.
Benwick finally said, “Sorry about Newberry.”
“Whatever,” was all Nort could manage.
“My da' says all broads are slags anyway.” He let out a dumb laugh at his own comment.
“Your dad beats you,” said Nort.
“Yeah.” Remembering why he was there, Benwick said, “Something's going on with the Envoy. New orders coming down. You should go talk to Draco.”
Nort didn't say anything, and Benwick returned to the fort on his own. Nort returned too, eventually, but he didn't go to see Draco. Instead he went straight to his room, jumped under his covers, and tried his best to stop existing.
* * * * *
Nort awoke to a smack upside the head, and Draco looming over his bed.
“Ow,” said Nort.
“Everyone's getting ready to leave. Didn't Benwick tell you to come see me last night?”
Nort, ashamed, looked down and didn't reply.
“What's wrong boy?” Draco asked, not in a caring way, but with sharpness and impatience.
“Girls are slags,” said Nort. Draco hit him upside the head again.
“All humans are slags,” Draco corrected.
“I am truly worthless.”
“But you aren't worthless. You're a prince of Norme! One day you may be a very important ransom. But keep that to yourself for now, we don't know how trustworthy all the men in this camp are. Anyway, we haven't any time for moping. Grab what you can and come outside.” Draco yanked Nort out of bed by the wrist and kept pulling. Nort was able to grab some clothes before he was brought out of the room.
They came to the courtyard where the rest of the fort and all of Giles' men had gathered in a semi-circle in front of Captain Foot. With Nort and Draco arriving, the Captain hocked loudly and spit a massive loogie, which was his way of indicating that he was ready to speak. Captain Foot placed his hands on his hips and looked over the lot, letting his gaze linger an extra beat on the newcomers.
“I'll be going with Giles to his camp to confer with Captain Heringale,” said Captain Foot. The rest of you will be performing scouting duty to the east, to confirm that the Normans haven't overrun the Eastern Lookout and slipped into our lines. Nort, you'll come with me.”
“But I want to go scouting! I've passed the test,” said Nort.
“Nort. That test is a joke we play on recruits. How does getting thumped by wooden beams prepare you for a scouting mission against the only trained military in the world?” Nort looked to Draco with hurt in his eyes, but Draco was smirking his thin-lipped grin, and not particularly trying to hide it. Some of the others were trying to hold back their laughter out of pity for the boy, but they weren't very successful.
“A three-year practical joke? That's not very funny and I don't like being laughed at.”
“Oh Nort, we’re laughing with you, not at you,” said Newberry.
“I’m not laughing.”
“We’re laughing for you, too,” said Newberry.
“Can you even hold a sword, boy? You haven't got any meat on those bones.” Giles remarked, joining in on the fun.
Nort screamed a visceral, long, continual scream and ran at the larger man. Giles made to dodge, but Nort was quick to dive and immediately latch onto the man's leg. Giles tried to shake him loose but ended up tripping and falling over.
“Oh, enough of this,” said the Captain, who pulled Nort up by his scruff. Nort tried to cling on and land some blows on Giles, but they either grazed or missed him.
“You dumb idiot bastard you don't know anything about scouting you don't even know anything about the desert you stupid idiot.” Nort settled for hurling a continual stream of insults at Giles while the Captain held him in the air.
Nort's shirt was disheveled and his sleeve had pulled back to reveal his sign of Norman Royalty: an image Mount Norme tattooed on his shoulder. The Captain set him down, still holding onto him. Nort righted his shirt, but he had not noticed that the tattoo had been exposed. Giles noticed.
“You're right Nort,” said Giles, “I don't know anything about the desert. Perhaps you and I should both join the scouting party, and then I can teach you something about scouting, which I do know a thing or two about, and you can teach me something about the desert.”
“That's very noble of you to offer, Giles,” said Captain Foot. “Nort, thank him for his generosity. Very well then. Nort, this is an official mission, and as chain of command is vital, I pronounce you Squire to Benwick.”
“But Benwick is squire to Newberry. I'm a squire to a squire?” Nort made to protest, but Captain Foot had already moved on.
“Myself and Sister Dornar will depart for the Captain Heringale's camp—Of course I'll need one of your men to accompany us to the camp, Giles,” said the Captain. Giles nodded in accord.
“I don't think so.” A meek voice interjected. Sister Dornar had stepped forward and squared up with the Captain. “I'm not going to pass up an opportunity to see new areas of the desert first hand. The area to the east of the Fort is not well documented in the most recent assay of the region, and I could learn valuable information.”
“Very well, Sister, you know best in those regards. You may accompany the scouting party.” The Captain went about preparing his camel.
Giles eyed his rag-tag group of traveling companions, openly dubious as to their ability.
“Should these two seniors really be joining the scouting party?” Giles indicated Draco and Sister Dornar. “I don't need anyone slowing us down.” He only met Draco's intense gaze for a moment before scoffing and looking away.
“Don't let Draco fool you,” said Newberry, “he's the most capable mercenary at the fort. And we'll look after Sister Dornar. Don't you worry.”
“Perhaps we will see a dragon,” said Benwick, giddy.
“Well, that would be unlikely,” said Sister Dornar. “That's why they stuck me here. Put old Sister Dornar where there's sure to be no dragons. But mark my words,” her expression became dark, “you wouldn't like to encounter a dragon very much. Their magic is matched only by their ruthlessness. Where dragons are concerned, might is the only right. No, it's best we leave the dragons to the heroes.”
“This isn't going to be dangerous, is it?” asked Nort.
“You’ve made your bed, now you'll have to lie in it,” said Newberry.
“But I’m not tired.”
* * * * *
“Why have you dressed us in these ridiculous frocks? Surely this is too much fabric for the squelching heat. Is this some kind of prank?” Giles was constantly adjusting the garments that had been provided to him. Nort was pleased to see him wearing one of their wide-brimmed hats, instead of his fancy feathered cap. He looked like a doofus like the rest of them now.
“The sun will dry you up if you let it. Full cover is the only protection,” Newberry answered.
“Very well. I've heard the desert sun is a tricksome beast, known to betray intuition and break men down with its interminable oppressive heat. One's very mind begins to play tricks on them, once it has been boiled to a certain point,” said Giles in his dramatic bard's voice.
“I've always found that it's mostly hot and you need to dress appropriately,” said Newberry.
“And it stops being hot at night,” said Nort.
“What's that in the distance, obtruding out the Earth?” asked Giles.
“Oh, that's a big rock.”
“I see. You know Nort, pal, we got off on the wrong foot, but I don't see any reason why we shouldn't get along. With my charm, and your knowledge of rocks, we'll make a great team.” Giles put an arm around Nort's neck and pulled him in roughly, letting out an exaggerated raucous laugh. Nort looked up to see he was staring at Newberry throughout this exchange. The last thing he wanted was to let Giles know he was jealous about Newberry, so he played it off cool.
“Yeah, Giles, maybe you're right,” Nort did his best to laugh alongside Giles, but it came out awkward and forced.
They continued walking, Giles walking side-by-side with Nort, making Nort increasingly uncomfortable. The wind picked up and gusts of sand began to irritate Nort. He tightened his face wrap. Giles scoffed and let the sand cut his face, deciding that if the locals were going to downplay his epic descriptions of the desert, he wasn't going to let it bend him to its will.
“Think we could be in for a sandstorm, Newberry?” asked Benwick, eyeing the sky for thunder clouds.
“We'll know when we crest a dune. Can't see anything right now,” she said, yelling over the wind.
“What's that?” Giles asked once again, pointing at something shimmering in the distance.
“That's a mirage,” said Nort.
“How can you say? Surely if it's a hallucination, you can't see my hallucination.”
“Mirages are obvious if you know what you're looking for. They might trick you once, but when you learn their true nature, you'll never let it happen again.”
They crested a dune. Giles was pointing at something again. “Oh I see, like that big shiny puddle over there? That's another mirage?”
“No, that's not a mirage,” said Nort, who was transfixed on this strange, flat, glaring surface they had found in the middle of the desert. It must have been a hundred feet wide. It was somewhat circular, but irregular, and it seemed like there were smaller patches of the same substance around it. It was almost blinding to look at, like some kind of mirror reflecting the sun's light.
“What the bloody hell is that?” asked Benwick.
“I don't know. But more importantly, there's the storm.” Newberry pointed at a large brown wall in the distance, with a stormy sky building over top. She then looked at the peculiar surface. “Benwick, get me my spyglass,” Newberry commanded.
“Nort, get the spyglass,” Benwick commanded.
Nort dug around the pack camel's bags for the spyglass, found it, and handed it to Benwick, who handed it to Newberry.
“It's a big patch of glass.”
Newberry lowered her spyglass to see that the scene had changed quite abruptly.
“You rat bastard,” said Benwick, who was struggling against one of the mercenaries who has a knife to his throat. Giles' men had all drawn weapons and apprehended Newberry's subordinates.
“Collect their weapons,” said Giles.
“What's this about?” asked Newberry.
“Nort is a Norman Prince. We're going to ransom him.”
“What? Nort isn't a Prince. Nort's Nort.” Newberry chortled , unable to comprehend the suggestion.
“Nort, or should I call him Prince Melwas, is the young Prince of Norme who was lost at the battle for Sarnia.”
They all looked to Nort, and he knew that they could see on his face the truth of the accusation. He looked to Draco, the only one aside from the Captain who had known his secret, for support, but Draco seemed not to be paying attention at all. In fact, there was no evidence that he was even bothered by the situation. Nort wondered if he had a plan.
The storm advanced.
“We must find shelter.” Draco broke his silence.
Giles eyed him angrily, wanting to disagree. “How long until the storm hits?”
“An hour.” Draco replied.
“How long will it last?”
“A few hours.” Draco replied.
“There are some caves in that sandstone, past the patch of glass. Isn't that right, Sister?” Draco asked.
“Yes, Draco, how did you know that?” said Sister Dornar.
“You must have told me about it at some point.”
Giles saw the sense in this. “Very well, we will wait in the caves for the storm to pass.”
“You're an idiot, Giles.” Nort finally spoke.
“Oh, why's that?” asked Giles, who was finishing the knot on Newberry's wrists.
“For thinking my stupid family is going to pay anything for me. My dad threw me off his elephant into a battlefield because he didn't want anything to do with me and he isn't going to care if you show him my tattoo you stupid dumb idiot bastard stupid stupid bastard—” Giles kneed him in the stomach. Nort doubled over.
Someone else kicked Nort from behind. He slung forward, hitting his head on the ground. They continued to kick and stomp on him. He struggled but it was no good. He felt himself losing consciousness. He didn't want to fade away helplessly. He wanted to sock Giles in the face. He heard Newberry and Benwick shouting and fighting for him. He wished he could help. He had heard stories of a prophecy. A chosen one. The son of a king. It could be him, couldn't it? He looked inward and focused.
* * * * *
Nort awoke to someone shaking him.
“Nort! How did you do that? It was incredible.”
“What? What did I do?” asked Nort, who was rubbing his eyes and getting his wits about him.
“You got your ass kicked and shit yourself. Then you started mumbling about being the chosen one. You fucking idiot.”
Nort looked around himself and saw that they were now in a cave. Their hands were now all tied together with a single rope. His clothes were wet from a puddle he had been dumped in, which was very uncomfortable. He shifted around and found that he had not, in fact, shit himself. That was a relief. Fucking Benwick. His body was sore and battered.
“Oh Nort,” Newberry cupped his cheek and hugged him. Maybe he should get his ass kicked more often, he thought.
“Hold in your noise,” hissed Draco, who was sharply focused on the empty space down the cavern hall.
“That sound,” remarked Sister Dornar, who had her eyes closed and head tilted with concentration, “it's as if there's a stream running through the cave. Come to think of it, I do recall reading a treatise from an old Anconan Emperor who was studying the water table of the desert. There was a footnote on peculiar seasonal shifts in the East that he wished to investigate further, but never had the chance.”
“Hey!” Draco called out to the guards. One came over. “We should fill our waterskins. There's water down there.” Draco was breathing heavily and staring off into the black cavern. Nort wondered how he could be panicking now when he was so calm at knife-point earlier.
Giles saw the sense in this. “Yes, we do need water. You there,” he said, indicating one of his henchman, “go check it out.”
The man grabbed a lantern and lit it. It merely illumined the next few metres, but there was still endless black beyond that.
“Perhaps we should go as a group,” the henchman offered.
Giles glared at him and pursed and lips before saying, “Fine.” He yanked the rope holding all the prisoners' hands together so that they got to their feet. “If anyone tries anything,” he was specifically eyeing Draco, “they will be peeled for entertainment while we wait for the storm to pass.”
“I'm not such a fan of torture,” said the henchman with the lantern.
“What?” said Giles, flabbergasted at the idiot's insubordinate comment.
“Captor today, captive tomorrow. S'all I'm saying.”
“Just lead the way,” said Giles.
The man led the way. The rest of the group followed, save the camel who was left at the mouth of the cave. The cave opened up to a large complex. The dim light from the lantern was insufficient to light up the distant walls. The sound of the rushing water grew louder.
“It's quite far.” The leading henchman said, as they had been walking for some time now.
“Well just keep going.” Giles was growing exasperated and impatient. “Not like we're in a rush,” he said, mostly to himself.
Newberry was worried for her friends, especially Nort, but she had been preoccupied by personal feelings of betrayal by Giles. She felt she must know more to make sense of it.
“What sort of captain is Heringale, to approve of kidnapping of allied mercenaries. He must know that this won't end well for him once the rest of the confederacy learns of what he's done.”
“Oh, and what will they do?”
“They'll send an army! One far larger than his.”
“They already have, my dear. We sacked every town from Aosta to the unguarded villages of Lamark with the entire Confederate Army on our heels. Only, they won't find us when they finally catch up. They'll march head first into the Norman army, who will undoubtedly have captured Fort Sand for themselves by that time. Meanwhile we'll be free to sack the rest of the unguarded Deep South. Little Nort here is just an extra bargaining chip, should we need it.”
“You'll all be hanged!” said Benwick.
“No, I expect that the United States will be hiring Captain Heringale's army shortly, once all parties involved realize how easy it will be for Norme to crush their remaining feeble forces.”
They all saw that Giles could be right, and they no longer felt very much like talking.
There was dripping water and the cave was quite humid, but they hadn't found the stream or indeed any other running water. There were some puddles too, and Nort saw a little white salamander drinking at one. At the sound of their approach, it perked up and ran off.
They walked on until they came to a narrow opening that immediately led to the source of the the sound of the rushing water. The opening was small enough that one would have to take great efforts to squeeze through. Well, unless they were Nort.
“I could go through and fill the waterskins and come back,” Nort offered.
“Not a chance.” Just looking at Nort's stupid bruised bulging face pissed Giles off. He wasn't about to let this twerp do something stupid again, forcing Giles to further damage his only meaningful ransom.
“You'll go,” he pointed to another of his henchmen.
“God dammit.” The man began unrobing down to his underclothes.
“Alright, I'm through,” he announced.
They could hear the sound of him opening the waterskins and filling them.
“Wait, what's that?” he asked. They saw the light bouncing around as he could be heard to stand up and walk around, investigating something.
“Just fill the waterskins,” said Giles, impatiently.
“Oh God!” The henchman let out a shrill shriek. The lantern shattered and the light went out. He began to scramble and scream, clearly fighting something off.
“Light another lantern!” Giles shouted.
“I knew it,” said Draco, who amidst the chaos and confusion, had found his calm once again.
Someone lit a lantern. Giles snatched it from him and marched up to Draco. “Knew what? What have you lured us into, you old bastard?”
“Look around you, fool.”
Giles turned the lantern this way and that, running around the room and finding clusters of egg sacks tucked away throughout the room. Some had already been torn open. A dragon's nest.
“Great plan, idiot, now you've killed us all.” Giles accused.
“All of us? No. All of you,” Draco replied.
Draco's face somehow shifted and contorted impossibly. It began to split down the middle. The skin unfurled and peeled away molting off his head and revealing glistening green skin of his true form. The layer that was Draco slid down his shoulders, draping him like a mantle. Long claws pierced his hands, degloving them. He tore the rest of the dead skin off his body. The mercenaries held quavering swords, but fear's grip was tighter.
“Well, so nice to finally meet you all.”
“So this is your nest then?” asked Sister Dornar, curiosity getting the best of her.
“No. I only knew it was here when I saw that glass. I had been looking for a nest in the area for some time, but too far North. Why the long face, Giles? Don't like being betrayed?” He let out a satisfied laugh just like Draco would. The familiarity of the laugh made Nort sick. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it when no words came. The dragon looked at him, perhaps expectantly, but all human expression was gone from the now reptilian face.
“How can you change your form to that of a man?” Nort finally managed to ask.
“Not all dragons can perform the trick. One must understand the inner workings of man, which is easy when you've ripped apart as many as I have.”
Giles and his men began floating. Their bodies were rigid and their faces were full of fright as if they were caught in sleep paralysis. They twisted and there was a sound of great multitude of cracking, popping, and tearing. There were no screams. They came apart and their eviscerated parts scattered to the cave floor.
“Is that helpful for your research, Sister?” Draco asked, floating now.
Newberry had drawn her sword and moved to stand in front of Sister Dornar, who was backing away, trembling with fright. Draco didn't move. A sword was no threat to him.
“Will you help us stop the rogue mercenaries?” It was Nort again.
Draco spun on Nort and floated to him, towering over him. He wasn't physically huge, but Nort felt the threat as if a lion had opened its jaws over his little skull.
“Your species was a mistake. One that will be corrected.” There was then a rumbling above them and suddenly the roof of the cavern exploded. Rocks shattered and were sent flying up into the sky. The group could now hear the sound of scurrying and chirping from all around them as the denizens of the cave were abuzz with alert. Draco rose through the hole and flew into the sand storm above, the sand unable to penetrate an invisible sphere that formed around. He made a swirling flicking motion with his hands, which was followed by more explosions and crashing throughout the cave. The earth around them moved and swayed and tossed them about. Parts of the roof collapsed and things screamed out and died. Fire flushed out crevices and more screamed and died.
Newberry scrambled and found Sister Dornar and helped her to her feet. Nort was dumbstruck. He looked up through the hole again to see that there were now other dragons in pursuit of Draco. Nort wondered if Draco had intentionally drawn them away, and if he had purposely avoided hitting them in his attack against the cave. Nort was pulled back to reality when Benwick yanked on his arm, dragging him along.
They ran.
* * * * *
The panic-stricken group, still bound together at the wrists, tried to navigate back to the opening of the cave, but much of the cave had been completely collapsed and there seemed to be no path back. There was a pile of rubble leading to an opening to the outside. They climbed. The sandstorm was still raging, cutting at them as they neared the opening.
“We need to make distance between us and the nest. We must go,” said Newberry.
“We must die,” said Nort, dragging his feet and slouching over on the rocks.
“We will be okay. We will cover ourselves and huddle closely and move in a straight line.”
“I don't want to move. I want to die.”
“Well you can die to the sandstorm, but you cannot die to the dragons.” Newberry picked him up, placed him outside, kicked him in the butt, knocking him over. He slid for a few feet before his rope caught, and then he lay motionless. Newberry wrapped herself and walked after him, the others following, and then she grabbed Nort by the scruff and dragged him.
Nort eventually got tired of his face getting shredded by sand, so he freed himself, wrapped his face and followed of his own volition.
They walked slowly until the storm subsided.
* * * * *
“Where are we going?” asked Benwick.
“There is one place we can go,” answered Newberry. “The lands of the Balloon King. They are independent, but once they hear what is at stake, given their proximity to the Norman border, they will have no choice but to help us.”
“Why did you like Giles so much?” Nort blurted out.
“Well I didn't know he was going to betray us.”
“I knew. He was such a douchebag.”
“Shut up, Nort,” said Benwick.
“He was,” said Nort.
“Oh I don't know. He had been places, seen things. I was so sick of the Fort and just wanted to finally do something.”
“Well now we know that people who have been places and seen things will kill us.”
“Pouting won't do you any good, Nort,” said Newberry.
“My mentor was a dragon. I have no family and no friends—”
“Of course you have friends, Nort. We're your friends.”
“You and Benwick?” Nort began breathing heavily and had trouble bringing in enough air to speak. “I-I-I'm,” Nort tried to slow his breathing so he could finish his sentence, but he had forgotten what he was going to say. He settled for, “Fuck you, Benwick.”
“What the fuck did I do?”
“You're just like Giles.”
“Giles tried to kill us,” Benwick's voice was strained and squealing with the astonishment he felt at the comparison. His consternation wore off as he realized something: “I see what this is about,” he said, staring at Nort calmly.
Nort could see what was behind Benwick's calm realization. He could see what Benwick was about to say. He tried to shout out to stop Benwick, but it was too late.
“You're jealous about Newberry.”
“What does that mean?” asked Newberry, looking between the two boys for someone to explain her responsibility in whatever was going on.
Benwick didn't answer. He looked down, cheeks flushed, feeling ashamed.
“Whatever. It doesn't mean anything. Benwick is a dumb idiot is what it means.” Nort stole a glance at Newberry and could see she had pieced it all together. He looked away again and pursed his lips.
“Let's just walk,” said Newberry.
The worst had come to pass. Nort's feelings were just a nuisance to be navigated past. He was an idiot and a loser. He followed, but at as much distance as the rope would allow.
After giving him some time, Sister Dornar slowed and joined Nort. “I hope we're still friends, Nort,” she said.
He was too embarrassed to acknowledge his earlier comments, so he only hugged her and buried his head in her side as a response.
“The Sisterhood teaches that one must always find a way to love life, even when it kicks us while we're down.”
“I do love life. I just think it doesn't love me back.”
“There there,” she patted his head, and having nothing else to say, hurried Nort along to rejoin the others.
A sudden horrific thought came over Nort, and he looked at Sister Dornar with fear and asked, “You're not a dragon, are you? Are all old people dragons?”
They all laughed. Nort did too.
* * * * *
They camped at night, tucking themselves away in some hidden nook as best they could. They decided nobody would keep watch, because if the dragons found them, they were dead anyway. Instead, they would all get some much needed rest.
Questions were thrown about—the kind of questions that get asked when one is lying bedroll, breathing the crisp cool nighttime air. There were questions about what the dragons' nest meant for the Southern States, about whether or not they'd live, about the Heringale's corrupt mercenary regiment, about the Balloon Kingdom, and finally about Nort and his time as a prince, to which Nort replied that he was tired, and that he would tell them another time.
* * * * *
The Balloon Kingdom left much to be desired. It was a simple wooden fortress that couldn't have housed more than one hundred citizens. There was a giant chasm running through the centre of the town. From this chasm, a great continual gust of wind was blasting out. High above the town was a massive floating balloon which carried a tiny wooden carriage. There were tethers tying it to the Earth, and a long rope ladder dangling below it, hovering a few feet above the ground.
As they approached the open wooden gates of the kingdom, a shirtless man, striking an imposing figure, approached them. He carried a large sword. He had as many muscles as Nort remembered the soldiers of Norme having.
“Blessings from on high, travelers, from where do you hail?” the guard greeted them.
“We're from Fort Sand,” Newberry offered, “and we carry urgent news for the King.”
“Fort Sand? Haven't heard of it.”
“We serve under Captain Foot in the Anconan Regiment of the United States Confederate Army.”
“I see. I haven't heard of any Captain Foot. And as you know, we are not a part of your Confederacy.”
“Yes, but I have urgent news that affects you. There are dragons,” she said, keeping her voice down, not wanting to cause panic among any curious eavesdroppers.
“Dragons?” The man clearly wasn't taking the threat seriously. “Very well. After all, the Balloon King is a gracious host and happily sees to all guests personally. Two of you may accompany me to see him.”
The guard began to grab empty leather sacks that were stored in a basket by the chasm. He opened them over the chasm, filled them with its air, tied them shut, and secured them to a rail planted in the ground. After being filled they began to float, just like the larger balloon high up above the centre of the town. He filled the final leather sack and held it by its rope. He whistled and a serving person came out with containers of food and water, which the guard carried in a rucksack. He began to climb the rope ladder leading up to the big balloon. Newberry and Benwick followed.
After the lengthy and tiring climb, they reached the carriage. They all fit, but they had to stand awfully close.
“His Supreme Highness, Sultan of the Skies, King Ascendius.” The guard made a bow—only as large as the tight space would permit—as part of the introduction.
The King was an unassuming frail old man, wearing a sheer white robe. He was adorned with a crown of twigs of rosemary. He greeted them in peculiar high-pitched tones.
“I am elated by your presence.”
“Your Highness,“ Newberry blurted out, “the people of the United Confederate States are in desperate need of aid. We've only just fled from a dragons' nest, as well as learned about a plot of a rogue mercenary group who intends to usurp control of all the states.”
“Dragons and the Confederacy. We, in the Balloon Kingdom, are above such matters.”
“But they'll come for you too,” Newberry protested.
“The Balloon Kingdom will only momentarily be completing construction of twenty more balloons: enough to for all our people to soar across the ocean, to new better lands. Such is our lofty destiny.”
This information left Newberry flabbergasted. Not knowing how to reason with such highfalutin lunacy, she chose a different tack. “Oh, that is most impressive, Balloon King. But what about the people who are left behind? Surely you have empathy for us, even if we are not of your kingdom.”
“The concerns of rest of the Southern States, and the Normans for that matter, are beneath me. I hold the future of humanity in my hands, you could not understand the weight of such a towering responsibility.”
“You sure have an inflated sense of purpose,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “If you have many balloons, couldn't you spare one? Lend us a balloon and we will be able to warn our people and prevent catastrophe.”
“No.”
Nort was sullen at being left behind, and felt like a child stuck with his babysitter. He began to get impatient and tugged at Sister Dornar's dress.
“Sister, what's going on up there?”
“I don't know any more than you do, dear,” she said.
“What's going on?” Nort shouted at the balloon.
“Hold on, Nort!” Benwick yelled back down.
“Will they help us? I'm hungry.” Nort shouted. There was no reply.
Nort began kicking the sand, as he often did when feeling restless. He kicked stones. He kicked the air. He kicked the wooden rail holding the balloons. One end came out of the dirt, and the rope securing a balloon began sliding out. Nort dashed to grab the rope before the balloon flew away, but it began to lift him. He grabbed onto another balloon to secure himself, but it also loosed itself from the rail, and now he had two balloons and was rising faster. Sister Dornar looked up at Nort floating away and said, “Oh dear.” Nort was deathly afraid, but he was too embarrassed to yell for help.
A nearby villager noticed and shouted, “My King, an assassin rises!”
Nort rose near the lip of the wooden carriage where the negotiations were taking place. The King and Guard were both bending over the sides to look for the would-be assassin. The King's sudden appearance startled Nort and he let go of a balloon, which flew away into the sky. On instinct Nort grabbed the nearest thing to him: the sleeve of the small, thin King. Nort tugged and pulled himself in, and as he did so, the King was thrown out of the carriage. He yelled out for several seconds until his body hit the floor.
“Assassin!” The guard pulled out his knife and lunged for Nort, who was now clinging onto the edge of the carriage and trying to climb in.
“No, I'm not an assassin! I'm Nort,” Nort pleaded.
Newberry and Benwick quickly jumped to action, trying to subdue and disarm the guard, but it was no good. He jerked about viciously with clear intent to kill all any of the three that he could. Newberry managed to grapple his knife arm, and Benwick struck the man and eventually took the knife away, stabbed him in his side, and kept stabbing.
Newberry looked around and saw that many in the town had taken notice and were looking on, mouths agape, as they called for more guards. Benwick began cutting the ropes leading to the anchors.
“Dornar! Grab onto the ladder!” Newberry shouted.
“Nort, you fucking idiot, you just committed an act of war,” said Benwick.
“Shut the fuck up, Benwick! You committed an act of war by being a dumb stupid bastard every day of your life.”
The balloon began floating off, and the three of them heaved the rope up, bit by bit, until Dornar, who was about ready to pass out from excitement and exhaustion, finally made it aboard.
* * * * *
“It was an accident, God dammit.”
“Nort, we'll talk about it later,” said Newberry.
“Guys, what direction are we even going in?” asked Benwick.
“North. We need to go west somehow, to Lamark.”
“I believe this contraption can be steered,” said Sister Dornar, who was still catching her breath. “Luckily I've read about these. Look here, there is a string of smaller balloons rising above the main balloon. At different elevations, the wind blows them in a different direction. If we release more air from the valve, we will rise, into a different stream of air.”
Newberry and Benwick threw the dead guard overboard. The balloon rose and their course shifted.”
“Or we can do that,” said Sister Dornar.
“Nort, you're still a fucking idiot,” said Benwick.
“If you negotiated faster this wouldn't have happened,” Nort countered.
“It takes more than a few minutes to convince a King to help you.”
“How hard can it be? 'There are dragons and traitors.' That's all you need to say.”
“We did say that and he wasn't helping because he had some God complex about his balloons or something.”
“Sounds like I did you a favor then.”
“For all we know, the King never would have come around,” said Newberry, trying to patch things up. “We may have caused one political crisis, but at least with this balloon we can make it to Lamark and prevent another,” said Newberry.
“Still a fucking idiot,” said Benwick.
“I wish we could help Captain Foot. And we have to tell him about Draco,” said Nort.
“There's nothing we could do against a full army of rotten mercenaries.”
“Nort, what do you think Bagdemagus will do. He's your old man, after all,” asked Benwick.
Nort glared back at him, assuming that this was some kind of veiled attack at him, but Benwick's face appeared earnest, and Nort eventually relented.
“My dad sure loved killing. I remember that much. If this gives him an excuse to kill, then he will happily take it. He also loved vengeance and hurting anyone that he thought slighted him. I remember when we were conquering Sarnia, he would line up some of the men we captured on the ground and then make his elephant stampede over them. He would laugh and holler like it was some fun game. Sarnia was the first time he brought me into battle. He wanted me to look at all the killing, but I always closed my eyes. That's why he threw me away. That and because I was too small.”
“Nort, that's horrible.”
“He was an all around bad guy.”
“I heard he was a great warrior, though. The fiercest fighter in the world. Do you think that's true? What does he look like?” asked Benwick.
“He's strong, and ruthless, and he's killed many in battle. Maybe it is true that he's the strongest fighter. He's very big and tall. He's bald and has a large bushy beard. He lots of tattoos and one big tattoo on his back of Mount Norme, kind of like this one.” He pulled down his shirt collar to show them the small tattoo of Mount Norme he had on his shoulder. “He has tribal tattoos of Norundia, the tribe of his father that conquered the North. He wears furs of mountain beasts he has slain—”
Nort's description was interrupted by a sudden slitting sound above them. They peered up to see there was a hole in the balloon, and it was leaking air.
“What's the blob?” asked Nort pointing at the ground.
There were more sounds of things slicing through the air around them.
“Oh it's an army,” said Nort. “Oh they've shot us. Oh we're descending. Oh, there's my dad.”
* * * * *
The crashed balloon was already encircled by a group of soldiers—real soldiers—with swords drawn, ready to be used at a moment's notice, yet they waited. There was an approaching stomping that shook the earth. Nort recognized those stomps.
“Where is he? I'd like to meet the Balloon King for myself.” The powerful voice of King Bagdemagus boomed loud and clear across the field. Soldiers parted to make way for the King, covered in furs and riding his war elephant.
“Which of you is the Balloon King?” one of the soldiers asked, swinging and gesturing with his sword across the whole group.
“None of us. We are mercenaries of Ancona,” said Newberry. “You are making a horrible mistake invading these lands. A large dragons' nest was just—”
“No King? That's a shame. Kill them,” said Bagdemagus.
“Wait, dad!” Nort shouted.
Bagdemagus, who had already turned his elephant to leave, paused, contemplating the voice that had just cried out. He slowly brought his elephant about and approached the carriage.
“Little Melwas! Still a pathetic little scamp, I see. Those Southerners don't know how to eat. Tell me, boy, how is it that you come to possess the Balloon of the Balloon King.”
“Golly. I go by Nort now. We asked the Balloon King for help with the dragons, but I accidentally pulled him out of his balloon and he died. We had no choice but to flee in the balloon.”
“Royal assassination and grand theft aero. That's my boy! And you say that there is truth to this dragon story? There is a nest nearby?”
“Yes, yes! It's true. You have to stop this invasion. We've seen what the dragons can do up close. They will kill everything. We must warn the Southerners!”
“This is excellent news! We will distract them until the dragons have infested their flanks, then back out and let them be overrun. The South will be ours!” He roared. The Norman soldiers whooped and hollered in celebration. “Melwas, ride with me. This is but a vanguard. Wait until you see the real army. We will see about feeding you a proper feast, one fit for a Prince of Norme who is celebrating his first kill.”
Nort, not knowing what else to do, obeyed. He walked up to the elephant, placed a foot on a stirrup, and jumped up to grab his father's outstreched hand. Something was loose in the stirrup, and as Nort put his weight on it, it came loose and gave. Nort lost balance and was going to fall, but his father caught his hand. The whole saddle was now sliding, and the King, who was overextended, toppled off of the elephant. He began to press himself up, but his hands kept sinking into the sand. The elephant was rearing at the commotion and suddenly dropped his front legs down on the scrambling king, squishing King Bagdemagus into the sand.
Nort only just avoided the same fate by scrambling and rolling out of the way. He got up in a fright and looked around him, panting and catching his breath. The soldiers of Norme stared in disbelief.
Nort waited for someone to tell him what was going to happen next. Nobody said or did anything.
Nort realized that this was his chance. They were waiting for him. He cleared his throat.
“The king is dead. I, the Prince of Norme, command you to stop this invasion. Stop killing one another. My dad's rule of terror is over. We can live together in harmony, but first we need to help the Southerners deal with the dragons.”
He was swiftly knocked unconscious.
* * * * *
Nort woke up in the infirmary of Fort Sand. He was groggy and his vision has amiss, but he could tell someone was by his side.
“Newberry?”
“No, dumb fuck, it's me,” said Benwick.
“What happened?”
“You proclaimed yourself king of Norme. Then you were clobbered over the head, fell unconscious, and shit yourself.”
Nort could tell that he did, in fact, shit himself this time. Fucking Benwick.
“How are we free?”
“Captain Foot figured out what was going on when he arrived at Heringale's camp. They took him prisoner, but he managed to free himself, escape, and kill four them with a sharp rock on his way out. He then reached Tantivy and warned him. Their army slaughtered the Norman vanguard that took us.”
“Golly,” said Nort. His senses returned and he took in his surroundings. There were many more people in the infirmary, and there was a great bustling about the entire fort. “What's going to happen to Fort Sand?”
“The Fort is now a crucial staging point for the upcoming fight against the Normans and the dragons. There are famous heroes from all over. Sister Dornar is debriefing them now.” Nort had never seen Benwick so excited. He thought that Newberry must be excited to see all this happening around her too. He was about to ask about her, when he noticed a young woman in a long grey dress enter the room. She had a white apron that was thoroughly stained in blood. She carried a bundle of banages in one hand and and a bucket of water in the other. She moved swiftly and steadily with the imbalanced load, offering a concerned an thoughtful look to various patients that she passed. She set the items down in their place and quickly shared words with another nurse, before walking over to Nort.
“How are you feeling, Nort?” the nurse asked.
Nort meant to say that he was doing much better now, and to thank her for whatever care she had offered him, but was having difficulty. He found that he couldn't speak, because he was too busy falling in love.
* * * * *
After God had completed his masterpiece, he decided it was time to create man. He created tender caregivers who would look after the Earth. He created possessed artists who would toil to capture the beauty of his creation. He created impassioned lovers who would hold each other in their arms feel everything life has to offer. He created scribes who would uncover the secrets of the universe and record them for their love of knowledge. He created ruthless conquerors. He created fantastic monstrosities. He created noble heroes. Finally, he created losers, as he had run out of ideas. This was a story about the losers.
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