A Prince Among Men

King Robin saw his young son knocked out of the saddle by a helmless and unarmoured man, on foot, swinging a broken lance.

The boy sat up and shook his head as if dazed.

Are you hurt? Called King Robin.

Only his pride, said the wizard, Aldhyrwoode, beside him.

Robin was accustomed to the wizard silently appearing with no warning, and wasn't startled, but he did wish his old friend would clear his throat...

Or something.

Anything.

Your pardon, Sire. Said Aldhyrwoode. The northmen have arrived.

Who are you, little man, challenged Bjern Bearskinner, to want to poke me with your needle?

My father's son, Rhowyn. Prince of Rhealmyrr. And if you had a neck, my needle would strike your ugly melon head clean off!

The berserker laughed long and loudly. A prince, is it? I eat them for breakfast! Come then, Prince Rhowyn! But mind you don't bend your puny needle... Others will need it to sew you back together!

Men of the castle guard elbowed and slapped one the other on the back where they watched from the walls and towers. While in the courtyard below, Robin ran at the mighty warrior, his sword raised over his head in a double-handed grip.

Bjern Bearskinner stood fully seven feet. As broad across the shoulders as he was tall. He had battering rams for arms, and fists like hammers. He had a neck, of that Rhowyn was certain, somewhere under the thick grizzled beard that flowed into the weave of coarse russet hair covering the giant's body.

Still some distance from the man mountain, Rhowyn threw his dull edged practice blade away and leaped into the air. The Bearskinner caught him easily, his massive arms almost crushing the breath from the boy's body, and swung him around like nothing more than a child's straw dolly. Roaring with laughter.

Uncle Bjern! Uncle Harald!

Setting Rhowyn back on his feet, Bjern Bearskinner kissed the boy's dark curls and then roughed them vigorously. King Robin and Bjern clasped forearms in fond greeting. And Harald Hard-arse curtsied, grinning like a loon.

Harald Hard-arse had lost all but three of his teeth, his right eye, most of his right ear, and three fingers off his left hand. Some called him Lucky Harald. Or Half Harald, because his mind was only half there, they said, but Harald only played the fool. The true fool was any man who doubted Harald's wits. Or his skill with a sword, axe, or spear.

Aldhyrwoode and the helmless man stood several paces away, looking on and smiling. The man's dark skin and short cropped black hair glistened with sweat. He wore a sleeveless tunic of crimson dyed wool, embroidered with a black crown of thorns, and cinched at the waist with a knotted black cord.

Winking at the blood red knight with his one good eye, Harald said, We kicked your father's arse.

The Marshall of Navarre raised a sceptical eyebrow. Really? That's not what I heard.

Bjern Bearskinner guffawed.

King Robin hid the flicker of a smile.

Don Alejandro stepped closer to Rhowyn. He draped both arms over the young prince's shoulders, his hands clasped in front of the boy's chest. Such an open display of affection wasn't rare. But Alejandro's love for Rhowyn had never stopped him from being a hard taskmaster. Hence the undignified exit of the young prince from his saddle, to rattle his teeth and bruise his posterior when he'd landed on the hard baked clay of the training arena.

Rhowyn lifted Alejandro's scarred knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

Oaks from acorns grow, said the Bearskinner to Rhowyn. Harald tells me tomorrow is your name day.

Rhowyn nodded. My years will number two and ten, my lord.

Old enough to marry! I have four daughters. I'll even let you choose.

Girls? Asked Rhowyn.

Aye, said Harald, and each one the spitting image of her father.

Not all girls have beards, Aldhyrwoode teased Rhowyn.

Certe, agreed King Robin. And even fewer have magic carpets.

Aldhyrwoode the wizard and Don Alejandro were waiting in the Great Hall. With them stood the captain of the castle guard, and an archer dressed all in green, leaning on his longbow. Don Sebastian was also present.

The Bearskinner saw the duke and glowered. What's that old scorpion doing here?

This concerns him and his as much as it does all of us, said King Robin.

He looked at the hooded archer and nodded.

The archer straightened and cleared his throat. He approached the table where Aldhyrwoode had unrolled a map of the known world. A world that, if the archer was right, was in dire peril.

The others gathered around to see where the archer was pointing.

Here are the mountains that mark the northern border of the kingdom, he said. Beyond them are the wastelands. Nothing and no one lives there...

Or so we believed.

We were wrong, said the wizard.

What, exactly, are we talking about? Asked Don Sebastian.

Spiders. Said Aldhyrwoode.

Hard-arse harrumphed. Are we maids to piss our pants at a few creepy crawlies?

These were the size of mammoths, said the archer. And they had riders. Others were with them, on foot. An army of others.

How many others?

Tens of thousands.

Ten or ten thousand, said Hard-arse. All men bleed the same.

The archer looked at King Robin.

These were not men, said the king. Or, at least... Not as we know them.

What followed the captain of the castle guard through the door of an adjoining antechamber into the Great Hall had to stoop so as not to hit its head on the stone lintel. Taller than the Bearskinner, it was slender and long limbed, with an elongated skull. The distorted features of eyes, nose, and mouth were recognizable as such. But that was where any resemblance to men ended.

The eyes were narrow shards of polished obsidian, seemingly without iris or pupil, and heavily lidded under a high brow. The nose was flat and shapeless with slits for nostrils. The wide mouth had no discernible lips. Holes in either side of the head served as ears. And the head, face, and neck were covered in irregular, iridescent-green scales. There were five finger-like appendages on each hand, and five toes on each foot, but instead of nails there were curved, wickedly sharp, black claws. Close-fitting armour plate of carved greenstone over some kind of leather that might have been rhinoceros hide protected the body from sternum to knee. But what fascinated the assembled lords more than anything was the sinuous, tapering tale that scraped on the flagstone floor.

My old mother whelped seven bastard sons to seven different fathers, said Hard-arse, but none of them were... What are you?

I am Skraaal.

The Skraaal are an ancient race, said the wizard, Aldhyrwoode. They were old when men were still swinging through the trees and scratching their hairy ars -

This is Saaal Soool, said the archer. Soool is his name. And Saaal is his title. We would say ‘Prince’.

What else is he? Asked Don Sebastian. A prisoner? A hostage? A spy?

Our guest, said King Robin. Though one with limited freedom.

And this army you speak of?

Hasn’t reached the mountain passes, said the archer. Yet.

But they will, said Alejandro. It is only a matter of when. Not if.

The duke shrugged. So, stop them there. They cannot come through in any number large enough to breach the defences. These passes are fortified, yes? Walls? Towers? Gates?

We... The king paused. We didn’t think it was necessary.

They are watched, said Aldhyrwoode, nodding toward the archer in green.

Oh? I suppose that's all right, then! Said Don Sebastian sarcastically.

The archer hooked a thumb at the Skraaal. No one gets through.

Saaal Soool tapped the table with a claw. There is one, he rasped, with more freedom than I.

His words were followed by a soft THUMP from under the table. Which was followed by a muffled OW! And the captain of the castle guard dragged Prince Rhowyn out of hiding by the ankles.

Don’t tell me, smirked Harald, you were tumbling a pretty maid. One from the kitchens, maybe. But then you put her down and couldn’t remember where. So you were under there looking for her. Am I right?

Everyone laughed. Even Saaal Soool. Everyone but the sour faced duke, Don Sebastian.

Rhowyn was allowed to stay to serve his mother, Queen Saavi, who had joined them. The queen was behemothly pregnant with a baby brother or sister for Rhowyn. He brought her a chair and helped her to sit. He poured her a cup of iced water, and chose the plumpest, sweetest fig for her from a platter piled high with a selection of fruits from the castle's own orchards

There were more platters lining a sideboard. One had thin slices of toasted bread, brushed with olive oil and rubbed with garlic, arranged around a leg of beef, marinated in red wine and mustard before being roasted on a spit, and served with a rich gravy flavoured with juniper berries. On another were quail stuffed with rice and dates, honeyed pheasant, quarters of apricot glazed duck, and fried chicken the cook had first battered and then coated in cornmeal, cracked red pepper, lemon zest, and powdered chilli. A third platter held cream cakes and sweet pastries, nuts, dried fruit, and honeycomb.

There were jugs of iced water. Others of wine. And a small oaken cask of barley beer. Which the Bearskinner and Harald bade Rhowyn leave at their end of the table.

Aldhyrwoode asked Rhowyn to do the same with the platter of cream cakes and pastries.

When presented with the roast meats, Saaal Soool politely declined.

The Skraaal do not eat of the flesh, he said, but might he trouble the young Saaal for a norange? Slicing it neatly into segments with a claw, he ate them without removing the pith and bitter peel.

Rhowyn returned to stand beside his mother's chair.

Don Alejandro found another for his father, the duke. Don Sebastian didn't refuse, but grumbled at his son to, Stop fussing.

Old age had silvered the duke's hair and beard, and the cold made his bones ache. His teeth had been replaced with dentures of walrus ivory. He needed a polished glass to read. He complained about the weather constantly. The iced water was too cold. The wine too sour. The meat too tough to chew. And he griped and scowled at anything anyone had to say.

But when Rhowyn knelt to rub his aching feet for him, the old curmudgeon softened enough to stroke the boy's hair with an arthritic hand.

How is your training at arms? He asked Rhowyn. Do you joust?

Yes, your Grace.

I remember your father could couch a lance better than anyone. Even mine own son.

To Alejandro the duke said, Did you tell him about that? Somebody threw a cabbage at you. You refused to yield. Robin broke your nose.

Rhowyn looked at the Marshall of Navarre. Now the Queen's Guard.

Really? He laughed. A cabbage?

Remember your duties, his father the king, told him, somewhat sternly.

Aye, said Harald Hard-arse. Bring us yon bit o' cow. But leave the crusts.

Above them, in the rafters of the Great Hall, Ovidieu the raven preened his sable feathers. Keeping a cautious eye out for Shadow, the wizard's black cat and familiar.

Beyond the sun baked salt plains men called the wastelands, Saaal Soool told them, were steep sided canyons created by rivers, fast and shallow in places, slow and deep in others. The rivers watered fruit trees, and fields of corn and squash. The Skraaal made their homes in caves and deep crevices they shared with their spiders. A Skraaal's wealth was measured by how many spiders he had, and how large they were.

The Skraaal do not give birth to live young, he said, but lay clusters of eggs which hatch by themselves when they are ready. The hatchlings are cared for by a collective of older females called the Skruuuliim.

What do the spiders eat? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Their young, answered Saaal Soool. A female can lay hundreds of eggs in a spawning. We separate the biggest and the best of the spawnlings, and feed those we do not wish to keep to the adults.

Sounds idyllic, said Don Sebastian. So, why leave this paradise of yours?

The rivers, said Saaal Soool. They are rising. More and more with each season. Soon they will flood our fields, and the trees will die. Ours is not an army of invasion, marching to conquer your lands, but refugees. A people in exodus. We ask only for safe passage.

A swarm of locusts, said the duke. And how do you expect to feed yourselves? Our farmers will not give up their harvests and let their children starve to feed your hordes.

His Grace does not speak for me and mine, said King Robin pointedly.

More fool you, then! Spat the duke.

Father!

What? Don't 'father' me, boy. The Navarre do not bend the knee!

More fool you, then. Said Bjern Bearskinner.

There was nothing weak or infirm in how quickly Don Sebastian stood up and drew his sword.

His Pompousness might find it easier, snarled the raider Harald Hard-arse, if he stood on a ladder.

Two such insolent saplings are as easily felled as one, said the duke.

Enough! Said Alejandro, taking his father firmly by the elbow. Put your sword away.

Your Grace, said Rhowyn, reaching for the duke's other hand and holding it in his own. Please?

Anger flared in Don Sebastian's eyes and, for a moment Rhowyn believed the old man might wrench his hand free and slap him.

King Robin hadn't moved. He stood at the table. Stone faced. Implacable. And stared the duke down.

Let us withdraw, said Aldhyrwoode, to consider. We will meet again on the morrow.

Prince Rhowyn woke in Alejandro's bed. He stretched and yawned. The bedclothes were tossed back and the sheet cool. Alejandro stood naked at a window, pissing noisily into a chamber pot.

Today is my name day, said Rhowyn. Do you have something for me?

Alejandro returned to the bed and leaned in to kiss Rhowyn full on the lips.

Is that all? Asked Rhowyn.

What more could a spoiled brat like you possibly want?

It was the second of Prince Rhowyn's name day feasts. A banquet in the Great Hall. The first had been that day, a riverside picnic for every child from the town and its surrounds. The duke did not attend.

Nor was he there at the banquet, sending a squire with Rhowyn's gift, a pricked-eared, wild-eyed prancing palomino named Skull-crusher. Horses were the duke's passion, and the coursers and chargers of Navarre were the finest to be found anywhere.

He is young, your Highness. The squire said to Rhowyn. And headstrong. His Grace wishes you both to grow and learn together.

Please thank his Grace for his most excellent gift.

The squire bowed before King Robin and Queen Saavi. Your Majesties. His Grace apologizes for his absence, and begs your forgiveness.

His Grace is a sour old grump, Saavi whispered to Robin.

The Great Hall was filled with light, and the rafters rang with music and merriment. Lords and ladies from all across Rhealmyrr had come bearing gifts for the young prince. They ate too much. Drank too much. And had a good time doing so.

Bjern and Harald were there. So, too, was Alejandro, seated to Queen Saavi's left at the high table. King Robin sat on her right. Then Aldhyrwoode. Then Rhowyn. Then Saaal Soool, who'd been allowed to attend as Rhowyn's guest.

I do not have a gift for you, young Saaal, I am sorry. But perhaps I can sing for you?

If it's a song you want, roared Harald drunkenly, I know one about a whore with a wooden leg!

The Great Hall fell silent as Saaal Soool made his way down from the dais to stand before Prince Rhowyn.

In a strong, if rasping, voice he sang...

When the stars were young

There were Skraaal

When the world was new

There were Skraaal

Before sky fall were we

Before dragon doom were we

Before the first grass were we

Before the first flower were we

No tree yet grew in The Garden

No harvest yet ripened there

No men yet spilled their seed

No women yet bore their fruit

After the last leaf dies will we be

After the last child weeps will we be

After the last mountain is dust will we be

After the last gods are slain will we be

When the world turns no more

There are Skraaal

When the sun and moon fade

There are Skraaal

Well? Demanded Don Sebastian.

The council had gathered again in the Great Hall.

King Robin and the duke stood glaring at each other across the table.

You ask too much, said King Robin.

I'm giving you Navarre!

In exchange for our son, said the queen.

You have mine, Don Sebastian countered.

The wizard Aldhyrwoode cleared his throat to say something.

One look at Queen Saavi's face was enough to change his mind.

I won't dishonour Alejandro by asking him to recant his vow to serve you, said the duke. I have ten more years, at best, and Navarre needs an heir. One the noble families will accept.

And Rhowyn is that heir?

Don Sebastian nodded. After he marries the youngest daughter of Montoya, yes. I will adopt him as my grandson.

And Alejandro? Asked King Robin.

Must be seen to support Rhowyn's claim. But... If my son should ever marry and have a child, then the dukedom will be that child's to inherit.

After Rhowyn?

Yes.

There was a long silence.

Don Sebastian grew tired of waiting. It's not as if you'll never see him again. In return I will cede our southern frontier to the Skraaal. The land there is very much like their own.

And strengthen your borders by several thousands, said Harald. You're smarter than you look.

I wish I could say the same for you.

Aldhyrwoode cleared his throat again.

This time Queen Saavi nodded. Go on. You've had a face like a constipated goat for the last... I don't know how long! Just say it.

It's Rhowyn's future we're talking about. I was only going to suggest we ask him what he thinks.

All heads turned and looked at the twelve year old prince.

It's not, though, is it? Said Rhowyn. I have my friends and my family. I don't need a crown or a throne to make me happy. What's important... What really matters... Is helping Saaal Soool and his people. And not just the Skraaal, but the people of Navarre. I know what others think of his Grace, I've heard what they say about him. Don Sebastian does what he truly believes is best for those who depend on him. He isn't always right. But he cares. Really cares.

Just like you, Father. Or you, Uncle Bjern.

Did you know that the cook tastes everything he prepares before it leaves the kitchens? Or that the miller grinds his flour twice? Or that Korm the stable boy mixes honey through the oats he feeds the horses? Just because they like it?

A crown without compassion is an empty promise.

Your Grace, said Rhowyn, kneeling at his feet and taking both of Don Sebastian's hands in his. I would be proud to call you Grandfather. And if I were the duke, I would try to be the very best lord I could be. Rich or poor, noble or low born, merchant or blacksmith or scullery maid, I would care for each of them equally.

But do not think me soft! He said, rising to his feet and looking at each face in the room in turn. I would punish the wicked. And hammer those who mean to harm. I would be strong, yet forgiving. Righteous, yet fair. Brave, yet prudent.

A man should be all of these. And more. They are the qualities that raise us up. The giants on whose shoulders we stand. Without them there is no hope of ever being all that we could be... All we might be.

A good man. A wise man. That man is a prince among men.