Rise of the Dead Prince (3 page)

Prince Meier was the youngest son of King Wold. When placed beside his brothers, everything about him was reminiscent of a sort of genetic afterthought, not unlike the leftovers of a great meal. He was small-framed and frail, given to illness, and generally forgettable in his endeavors. His only real interest was for scholarly learning, but even in this, he was lacking. He could almost recite the line of kings from five hundred years past to the present, describe details of past battles with nearly passable accuracy, and recite epic poems with only a few dozen mistakes or so. He was sullen and depressing to be around, generally disdainful of the martial arts, and utterly disinterested in matters of state. Unlike the tales of his brothers, these stories were
entirely
true. The young women of Valahia were not in love with him at all. His forehead was too big, his brow was too low, and his eyes were deep set and frequently downcast. In addition to every other contrast from his brothers, Meier was also deathly pale and looked at any given time as though he were about to coll
apse.

This is not to say that no one liked him. His brothers were quite protective of him, and he had the love of the king and queen in equal measure to his brothers. Ian often tutored Meier in archery, and after years of practice, Meier could hit the target about half the time from thirty paces. The only bulls-eye he had ever scored was preceded by a sneeze at the time of release, much to the stifled amusement of the on-looking castle guards. He was afraid of the tightrope the Ian walked with such skill, and his swordsmanship would best be described as a disastrous waste of everyone’s time. Assur had tried to help him learn to fight with a battle axe and build his body up, but Meier could barely lift an axe; and despite the frequency of his exercise, he always seemed out of breath. Prince Meier was not quite a national embarrassment, but it was a fine line that he skirted. He was more of a national secret, except that it was a secret that no one really cared a
bout.

The only one who seemed to believe that Meier was exceptional somehow was the court wizard Crocus. Now with the title of wizard, it bore mention that this role doubled in most ways as court jester, since no one really believed in magic as a real thing. It was true that Crocus could sort of conjure brief bits of fire, but this ability was suspect owing to the general scent of sulfur that went along with it. Crocus could also read the future in a vague way and was accurate a good 20 to 30 percent of the time. He was also the oldest person that anyone anywhere had ever heard about. His exact age was unknown, but the rumor was that Crocus had already been old when had joined to court several decades prior. These stories were undoubtedly exaggerated, but they certainly made for good gossip. In any case, Crocus had taken a special interest in the black sheep Meier and often offered to teach him the ways of magic in his spare time. Meier typically refused, since he was far too busy failing at his other endeavors; but one day, he finally accepted. Had it been possible for Meier to fall asleep while standing, he would have done so no less than twelve times during the old man’s opening lecture. When it was finished, Meier admitted that he could not have repeated a single word of it even had he been so inclined. His first lesson in magic was also likely to be his
last.

The days passed in this manner. Assur and Ian grew to be more and more magnificent, whereas Meier just grew. Meier was eighteen now, and he had soundly established his mediocrity in all of the normal princely skills. Assur and Ian constantly encouraged him, but Meier remained mostly impassive. He seemed for the most part to be indifferent to everything, finding passion in nothing. The older brothers made it their personal mission to find something that he was the best at, for in their somewhat biased minds, Meier was a prince of Valahia and therefore destined to be great in spite of himself. Meier appreciated their efforts in his own way, which meant that he was less lugubrious around them, if only by a little. He often hoped he would find something that he shined at, if only to impress his brothers and make them proud. Then perhaps they would not have to try so hard. If only he could find his niche, then he believed that things might actually look up for a change. Until then, Meier would continue to grow paler in his room, reading his favorite books over and over again, secretly wishing he was the hero of any of
them.

It was on the bright morning that Meier awakened early that things suddenly changed. Assur was still in the courtyard, training his already gigantic muscles to be stronger, and Ian was returning from his morning hunt in the woods. The servants and guards were all going about their daily activities. In most ways, it was a day like any other. A runner appeared at the gates, bearing a missive for the king. The fact that he ran straight for the throne room, only stopping to present his seal to the guards, was enough to make the servants of the courtyard take immediate notice, with Meier among them. Wandering back down the ground level, he ran into the woman that tidied his chambers. She was all too happy to add her observations to his
own.

“He sprinted clean across the courtyard, my lord, and went straight for your father’s throne. He looked as though his lungs would burst!” she said furtively. Meier was still too tired to be anything but unamused; but despite this apathy, he made his way to the throne room in a nearly straight line, taking only one wrong turn along the way. By the time Meier made it there, King Wold, Assur, and Ian were already leaving for the war room with all the ministers and generals. Meier had never seen so many government officials in a single place. It was quite odd. He lethargically followed them, and no one seemed to take notice as he tagged along in the rear. It was such that the last general nearly closed the door behind him before noticing that Meier was t
here.

“So sorry, my lord,” he said, moving out of the
way.

“It happens,” replied Meier with a slight shrug, navigating the abnormally crowded room. He looked at the large map on the table and saw what the missive was about. Or at least he was pretty
sure.

“The army is prepared and will be here by tomorrow morning,” Wold told his generals. “We march for Karavunia at noon, and do not stop until we reach our fort at Colif. With luck, the enemy will not detect our advance until it is too
late.”

So that is what it was. Meier felt his heart leap. He had known about the rivalry between Valahia and Karavunia, of course, but he had not known about his father’s plan to attack them. The feud ran deep into history, having started some two hundred years prior. There had been three wars in that time, all ending in stalemate at the original borders. Wold’s announcement was followed by a stunned sil
ence.

Valahia was a small horizontal oval of a country, with the large Gunar to the northwest, the impassible Parath Mountains to the north, the disease-ridden Arnovo swamps to the south, and the kingdom of Karavunia to the east. Karavunia bordered the Nego Sea to its east, and this is what Valahia wanted. The income from sea trade to be gained was worth the assault, and besides this, to subjugate the whole of Karavunia would increase the size of Valahia by a third. But to make war unprovoked? It seemed a bad business to Meier, not that anyone cared what he thought. Assur and Ian were of a similar opinion and were especially vocal abou
t it.

“Father,” said Assur, “can we not send an envoy to request access to a sea port along the southern border? We could ask for a narrow strip of land and perhaps avoid conflict.” Ian nodded emphatically at his brother’s w
ords.

“I agree with Assur, Father. Is there no way to maintain our long-standing peace?” The generals were divided, but the king spoke
next.

“They would deny us, and then we would go to war anyway, except that our surprise would be foiled and we would likely fight to another stalemate, thus wasting our efforts. No, my sons, we must attack them directly and make a straight path to the capital city!” There was still doubt in the war room. He addressed it. “War is inevitable between our two nations. Even now they contemplate the same move. Who will join me in striking first?” There were no more dissenters. Assur and Ian clapped their hands on the king’s back from either side, pledging their full support to the endeavor. Meier watched on, thinking of something he might say, but thought better of it. His father’s eyes had grown large with the thought of a bigger kingdom to rule. His would be a great legacy, and he would not be denied. Meier looked at the pieces on the board, and suddenly, a strange thought came to him. He recalled his history and then looked at the map again. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t say what it was. He shivered. They were forgetting something. All of these generals and ministers seemed to be missing something
big.

Meier, as ever, didn’t say a word. And so the Valahians prepared for
war.

2
The Feast and the Wizard

A
ll told, King Wold had managed to recruit and assemble just over twenty thousand men in relative secrecy. The towns from which these men came were given strict orders to maintain the secret, and this ploy had worked almost perfectly. It was an army of volunteers, mostly from the western reaches of the land. The standing army of Valahia was five thousand strong, and so after leaving a relatively small force behind at the capital at Targov, the king set out with the largest army Valahia had produced in over one hundred years. The only ones who had known about the army had been those directly involved in its assembling, which is why the three brothers and many of the ministers had been taken aback by the news. In the years to come, this hasty force would come to be known as the “‘flash flood
army.”’

As a matter of tradition and honor, the three brothers, who were all of age, would ride alongside their father to war. Queen Mira would take up ceremonial arms and stay to guard the capital in the absence of her husband, as was also tradition. Yet another tradition was the great dinner before the march, which took place in the great hall of the castle. All men were to wear their full battle attire to this occasion. Prince Assur was perhaps the most foreboding figure in the hall. He, like his father, was outfitted in heavy plate armor. The prince kept his giant battle axe by his side. He looked as though he could break through an enemy line singlehandedly, and this was probably true. The force he would command would be the vanguard cavalry of army veterans, who were all dressed in a similar fas
hion.

Prince Ian, in turn, was dressed in long ringed mail, which was tied at his waist with a heavy leather belt. He wore his long bow across his back and his twin swords on either hip. On top of his head was a grand helmet with a red feather plume, as if daring the enemy to approach him. His force would be the light skirmishers, who would harry the enemy reserves with arrows, dancing around the field in an effort to corral and flank the enemy. His force would be comprised of the fastest horses and riders, and all would be similarly armed and ski
lled.

Before the feast, Assur and Ian had dressed Meier in a variety of different armors, starting with ring mail, and then downgrading to chain, then to leather, and finally settling for a heavy quilted tunic. All the armors had been too heavy for him or else impossible for him to move in. To save him the embarrassment of spilling his food all over himself, they decided the lightest of armors would be the lesser of two evils. He was armed with a tarnished saber he had found hanging on a wall someplace, and in his belt was a silver dirk that was probably best used for opening letters. Meier both looked and felt pathetic. His job in battle was to stay by his father in the rearguard and to try and avoid falling off his h
orse.

Throughout the evening, a great many toasts went out, hailing the king and his mighty generals. Meier was mercifully omitted from this fanfare, and despite his close seat to the king, no one talked to him. This was exactly how Meier wanted it. He tried to smile for his brothers and his father, but his heart wasn’t in it. He made every toast faithfully, all the while mentally straining to become invisible. During the feast, he caught the old conjurer Crocus looking at him and smiling from his seat at the far end of the table. Was he laughing at his ridiculous presence? He certainly did not seem to be sneering, but rather he seemed genuinely proud. Meier chalked this up to extreme senility and then dismissed it. Throughout the rest of the evening Meier tried to avoid eye contact with the geriatric trickster, but as often the case in such matters, he couldn’t help himself. Every time he glanced over, the old man was beaming at him. It was getting irritating. Meier finally bugged his eyes out at the old man, as if demanding that he stop. It was rude to be sure, but Meier didn’t care. How could he be invisible when someone was staring at
him?

It was then that the worst part of the evening began. Crocus stood up and was acknowledged by the king. The diners all smiled, ready for some entertainment from the old man. Crocus cleared his throat to speak, with goblet high in
hand.

“Distinguished ladies and lords, I have a toast and a prophecy to share with all of you!” he said. The table went silent in expectation. This should be good. “First off, a toast to Valahia’s princes!
All
of them! Cheers!” The table toa
sted.

“And now for a very real prophecy. I’m really very certain of this one.” The old man closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, as if to communicate that he was in touch with the great beyond. “You will win the day, my lords, but not how you think! Help will come in the most unexpected way, and at the crucial moment, it will be a stroke of luck that saves the day! So that’s good!” Crocus drank again then sat down. No one seemed overly pleased with the “‘prophecy.’” Had he been a smart entertainer, he would have said something like,
“You’ll win easily and be dancing at the capital in a fortnight.”
The table was quiet for a few moments, but soon the awkward silence passed, and people returned to their meals. In a minute’s time, the words of the batty old gentleman were mostly forgotten. Meier looked over, and Crocus was looking at him again. He shook his head and covered his brow. How he wished he would stop it. Why was he looking at him anyway? Was he really so deranged that he couldn’t cast his creepy glance elsew
here?

After the feast, Meier was one of the first to escape. He said good night to his parents and his brothers and then slipped away as quietly as humanly possible. Most of the rest stayed up exchanging heroic tales and drinking. Staying for that would have been even more uncomfortable than the whole of the evening combined. Meier headed to his quarters in a state of supreme despondency. He had never felt so embarrassed. He was convinced that everyone at the feast had spent half their time wondering why he was there. Shouldn’t he have been hiding under a rock, as was most fitting? Once he reached his room, he ripped off his belt in a petulant moment of fury. The saber and dagger clattered to the stone floor. As an added gesture of frustration, Meier kicked the leg of his bedside table as hard as he could. This resulted in a hurt toe and a stream of uncouth words. On the bright side, the table was completely undam
aged.

As Meier was struggling to take off his uncomfortable clothing, there was a knock at the door. Meier was in no mood. “Come again later!” he said, a bit louder than was necessary. There was a brief period of silence, followed by a quavering old voice which said, “No!” He knocked again, as though that would help anything. Meier was a prince. Crocus was an annoying court entertainer. Who was he to say ‘
no’
to a direct order? Enough was enough. Meier opened the door violently, his tunic half off. He was a disheveled wreck, and he wanted the old man to see just how inconvenient his visit was. “Can I come in?” he asked, already walkin
g in.

“No!” said Meier. He tried to block him from entering by spreading his arms, but he had to give it up when his pants started falling down. He was halfway to undressed, after all. Crocus ignored the direct request as though he had not heard it; and instead he came in and started walking around, picking up this and that, scrutinizing personal objects, and behaving in far too familiar a way. Had the old man finally snapped his last branch? It was entirely poss
ible.

“Are you completely crazy?” asked Meier, exasper
ated.

“Yes, I think I am,” responded Crocus nonchalantly. He then stood still for a few seconds, deep in thought. “Nope! I’m sure of it. I’m crazier than a cave full of rattled bats!” he exclaimed, smiling. How did one respond to this? Meier was momentarily un
sure.

“Look, Crocus, it’s bad enough that you creepily smiled at me throughout the whole feast
…
but to barge into my room is just plain torture. So the question is
…
why do you hate me?” Meier sighed heavily then plopped down on the edge of his bed and started tying his pant strings, waiting for the old man to stop and go away. Maybe he could call for the guards. That could
work.

“I don’t hate you at all, quite the opposite. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long while. I made a potion just for the occasion.” The old man produced the potion from an inside pocket. It was a murky green color and appeared to have bits of who knows what floating around in it. Crocus held it as though it was immensely valu
able.

“I’m not drinking that, Crocus,” said Meier. “Ever. So please leave and I’ll try to forget how your senility led you to break into my chambers uninvited and unwanted.” Crocus lau
ghed.

“I’m just here to help you! So let me ask you this. Are you ready to go into battle with your father and brothers? Let me answer. No! Of course, you aren’t! You’re a hapless misfit with no visible skill of any kind, and everyone knows this.” Meier was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he h
eard.

“You know, that was surprisingly
unhelpful
, Crocus. I’m not sure if you realize it, being crazy and all. Now please try your best to leave the way you came! I swear I’ll call the guards if I have to.” Meier was at the end of his rope with all of this. The old man seemed unf
azed.

“Would you like to see a magic trick, perhaps?” he asked chee
rily.

“No! No, I would not! Now get out!” Meier responded angrily, still fighting to keep his drawer
s up.

“Well, that’s too bad, because I have just the trick, and I’m going to show you anyway.” Crocus laughed manically. He was clearly out of control. Meier hastily cinched his trousers and marched to the door to call for a guard or two to bodily remove the crazed man from his room. Crocus snapped his fingers, and the door suddenly closed and bolted itself. Meier was so startled that he nearly fell over. His anger hadn’t quite faded, but most of it was suddenly overtaken with curiosity. Crocus looked suddenly wi
nded.

“Must have been a draft, eh? Even the wind wants me to stay! So there!” He cackled again, but a bit more weakly. Meier narrowed his eyes slightly at the old
man.

“My window is closed, and the door closes the other way
…
” he said, doubting what he had seen. He tried the door, but it seemed jammed at the moment. Meier shook his head violently. No, of course not. A trickster has tricks, probably a string or somet
hing.

“Well then, if you are quite finished trying to run away, I’ll tell you a secret.” Crocus crossed the room to the mirror on the wall and motioned for Meier to join him. Reluctantly, he did. Nothing special was happe
ning.

“How did you close that door?” asked Meier with sudden inte
rest.

“With magic, silly,” Crocus answered. “Now hush and listen. If you look in the mirror, you’ll see the most important person in this whole kingdom.” Meier scoffed but played along. Another magic trick perhaps. Meier looked in the mirror, but only saw himself and the old wizard. Suddenly, Crocus took a large step to the side. Only Meier was left, staring at his own uninteresting reflec
tion.

“You’re not funny at all,” Meier
said.

“So what did you see, eh? Was it Assur? Ian perhaps?” asked Crocus hone
stly.

“Of course, it wasn’t, you deranged lunatic. That was the lousiest magic trick I’ve ever seen.” Meier was beginning to hate Cr
ocus.

“That’s funny. That usually works. Let me try another one
…
Mirror! Show us the strongest man in Valahia.” Meier stood by disdainfully, idly wishing that bad things would happen to Crocus soon. There was an odd purple flash that filled the room momentarily. It startled Meier and got him looking for the source, but he soon forgot all about it. Meier looked in the mirror with a sarcastically quick glance but then quickly looked a
gain.

There was Assur, plain as day, drinking in the great hall! It was like looking through a window that Assur’s face was on the other side of. Meier nearly fell over again. He took a step back, shaking his
head.

“Some trick, right?” Crocus asked happily. “You’re tiring me out with all your negativity and skepticism, so hopefully you believe me now. I’m old, you know. I can’t take it.” Meier slowly nodded. His head was feeling a bit light. His life had just changed a little. Magic? Real? Who knew? Nobody, that’s who. “Are you all right, young man?” asked Cr
ocus.

“I, uh
…
yes,” Meier managed. “How?” This time, it was Crocus’s turn to
sigh.

“Like I said, you may recall, it’s called magic, you slow boy. Now here’s the real reason I’m here! So listen, will you? You are very important, Meier. The mirror showed you your own reflection when asked for the most important person in Valahia. I came to show you that, and to give you this!” Again, Crocus produced the nasty-looking flask of liquid. Meier looked at it in an entirely new
way.

“I still don’t believe any of this is true. It’s impossible. I’m one of the most worthless, uninteresting people in the whole country.” Crocus just lau
ghed.

“Of course, you are. You just happen to be all that
as well as
the most important person.” Crocus handed the flask to Meier. “You don’t need to believe any of this right now, Meier. That’s not required. What’s important is that you take this potion with you into battle and drink it before the first charge. It’ll clear your head a little and make it easier for you to think better. It’s not really magic, just herbs and such.” Meier pulled the stopper and smelled the concoction. He nearly ga
gged.

“Ugh! It smells like rotting fruit!” he said with disgust. Crocus nodded, clearly impre
ssed.