The Lost Country

“You know this boy, Rupert?”

  “Yes, I ...”

  I feel ready to pass out and grip the rail more tightly with sweaty hands.

  “Take the lad inside!” Father commands. “We’ll deal with him later.”

  Two soldiers manhandle Eric down the red carpet toward the castle. Clyde attempts to follow, but other soldiers shove him back.

  Again the crackling sound comes from the sky – louder now. I look up. A lead weight suddenly crushes my heart, and I stagger back under its burden.

  “This is unseemly, Rupert,” Father is saying. “We cannot tolerate such behavior.”

  I point at the sky.

  Father’s eyes move upward. Shock and confusion tear across his face. Mother looks up next, and the same emotions collide on her face.

  Then, as if they are all one being, the people swivel their heads up together. A horrified gasp rocks them.

  15: Lost in a Nightmare

  High above – oozing out of some nightmare – comes a boiling, greenish-black cloud. A crackling, booming noise echoes from this seething mass, and cold shadow pollutes the ground beneath it. The people stand rigid with fear. Many faint dead away.

  General Colfax’s powerful voice rings out: “Forward men!”

  He clatters up the stairs with several troopers and stands close beside us as further horrors appear in the sky. For behind the first cloud floats a solid dark mass, barely clearing the eastern city walls, its black edge murdering the daylight before it. It’s in the shape of a horse and demonic rider!

  Father seems dumbfounded. Mother wears an expression I hope to never see again. Her jaw is clamped shut and her lips pull back, baring her teeth like snarling dog’s. Her eyes burn with fury. A ceiling of dirty gray-black lowers upon us, and panic sweeps the crowd.

  “My people!” Father calls out. “Please remain calm!”

  Mother clutches his arm.

  “We must get to the castle. Now!” she says.

  She actually pushes Father away from the railing with one hand. With the other she grabs my arm and shoves me toward the stairs. An unearthly wail sounds as people surge about the square. Masses rush the reviewing stand.

  “Out of the way!” Soldiers cry as they beat back the fearful people.

  “Don’t hurt anyone!” Father cries.

  But fists and bludgeons fly as the soldiers force a path for us down the stairs. One moment we are all together, the next I am by myself, the mob swirling around me like a cyclone.

  It howls with a storm’s voice: WOOOOOOOooooo! WOOOOOOOooooo!

  The evil cloud lowers upon us and hits with a suffocating impact that drives me to the ground. I must be knocked cold for a few moments.

  When I come to, the paving stones feel oddly warm against my cheek, and I taste blood in my mouth. I grope to my knees.

  Mist stabs my face like hundreds of pins; an eerie silence reigns. Somewhere cooking fires must have been upset, and the stench of charring flesh pollutes the air. I struggle to my feet – dizzy, and disoriented.

  Our beautiful city is displaced by a land of terrors. The air hisses, like an acid eating at my sanity, burning my lungs when I try to breathe. Panic claws me. I draw my damp robe around myself. With my other hand I grip my sword hilt. Never have I felt so utterly alone.

  “Over here!” My words fall dead. “Prince Rupert!”

  My view is limited to just a few feet.

  “Over here!” I call again.

  “Coming, Your Lordship!”

  Clyde suddenly materializes out of the murk. Gypsy is with him, too!

  “Are you all right, Highness? I feared you’d been trampled.”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you.”

  I try to sound dignified, but suspect that I am failing miserably.

  “Just look at this,” Clyde says, “like the devil himself blowed out the sun.”

  Gypsy begins to skitter about.

  “Take it easy, Gypsy,” Clyde soothes.

  Just like that, the horse settles down.

  “I must get to the castle,” I say, “but I don’t know where it is.”

  “It’s that way.”

  Clyde points off in the fog.

  “How do you know?” I say.

  “The paving stones,” Clyde says. “They’re cut rectangular, see? We follow this line of stones down their long sides to the red carpet. Then we turn left.”

  Despite the frightening circumstances, I can’t help feeling embarrassed. Why didn’t I think of this method? I haven’t been able to do anything except scream like a helpless babe.

  “Very well, Clyde, lead on,” I say.

  After a brief period following the paving stones, Clyde leading and me tagging along like a serving boy, we reach the carpet. The painful cramp in my stomach relaxes a bit.

  “We’ll be through the castle gates in no time,” Clyde says.

  The murk begins to shake off its unearthly silence. As we creep along, an uproar full of terror and violence gathers strength. It’s the awakening roar of the fog beast.

  A rock hisses out of the fog and strikes my shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  Gypsy bucks and snorts. Two men tumble out of the fog, grasping each others’ throats. They crash into Gypsy, fall and roll about.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Clyde shouts.

  We run, our feet splatting on the soggy carpet. A group of men suddenly blocks our way. Swirling vapor hides their faces.

  “Halt!” they command.

  My heart leaps into my mouth. Clyde slides right into the men and falls flat. In a moment he is up, sloshing back toward me.

  “Give me your sword!”

  I have the blade half out of its scabbard before I recognize the men.

  “General Colfax!” I yell, “It’s me, Rupert.”

  The general steps from among his troops. His stern face seems like a rock of safety in this dangerous new world.

  “Come with us, Highness,” he says.

  The soldiers form around us, marching double quick, knocking aside anyone who gets in the way. The castle gate looms ahead. We pass through it into semi sanity.

  16: A Harsh Awakening

  We hurtle on like a battering ram into the reception hall. The knot of people already there gives us a ragged cheer. My relief is wondrous, as if I’ve just come back from the dead.

  “I shall report your return to His Majesty,” Colfax says.

  He dashes away. I try to follow, but just then Queen Angelica appears from a side corridor. She looks ghastly pale and wraithlike.

  “Rupert!” She embraces me. “I feared they had come for you.”

  “Who, Mother?”

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  Confusion muddles her face. She looks about the reception hall as if she’s seeing it for the first time.

  “Mother, you’re scaring me.”

  She covers her eyes with a hand.

  “I can say nothing further,” she says. “A door has shut in my mind.”

  She seems about to faint. The great strength she displayed on the reviewing stand is totally gone now.

  “Come, Mother, let’s return to your chambers.”

  I accompany her there and sit a while until a maid servant appears. Then I return to Clyde in the reception hall. He stands off to the side, still holding onto Gypsy’s reigns.

  The corridors are coming to life now as more people straggle in from the fog. Colfax’s men guard the entrance to keep out undesirable elements.

  The newcomers include Jonathan.

  “Your Lordship,” he whimpers, “what’s happening?”

  He grabs my arm. Fear glazes his eyes, and panic is ready to leap out.

  “That’s yet to be determined,” I say. “Get a grip on yourself, Jonathan, attend my horse!”

  Clyde thrusts the reins into the stableman’s hands. With a practical task at hand, Jonathan seems to regain his manhood.

  “Yes, my lord,” he says.

&n
bsp; He leads Gypsy away toward an unoccupied corner.

  “Come with me, Clyde,” I say. “I must see the King.”

  We take off down the corridor.

  As we near the council chamber, military officers appear at the run. From the opposite direction, noblemen rush forward. The two groups jam the doorway. Finally they all shove their way through. We follow them inside.

  The council chamber is packed. Fear clings to the air like a poison vapor, adding to the sour odor of sweat and damp clothing. Fog wisps slither along the floor, entering from under the balcony doors.

  The King sits in his great chair at the far end. I make my way through the crowd and take my place standing slightly behind him, Clyde in attendance. Father grasps my hand briefly.

  “Thank heaven you are well, my son.”

  Then he returns to his official pose, dignified and strong. Two rows of chairs spread before us lengthwise. General Colfax and his officers occupy one row while Duke Wiltone and other nobles sit together in the other. Numerous lesser personages clutter the walls.

  A soldier brings in Eric and shoves him before the King. The poor lad stands trembling, twisting his cap in his hands. With his dusky skin and shabby clothing, he looks totally alien, as if he’s flown in with those awful clouds. The gathering mutters disapproval.

  “What is your name, lad,” the King says, “and from whence do you hale?”

  “My name is Eric, Sire. I am from the Eastlands – beyond the mountains.”

  Angry disbelief echoes through the crowd: “What’s he saying? ... beyond the mountains? ... Impossible ... The boy lies!”

  Father, too, is amazed. He quickly recovered, though.

  “Let us hear your tidings,” he says.

  Eric twists his cap with renewed vigor. People lean forward. The entire room holds its breath. Eric looks toward me, and I nod encouragement.

  “A bandit gang has invaded from the Eastlands, Sire,” Eric says. “A hundred strong, at least, led by Captain Afflis. The mist followed them here.”

  The whole crowd cringes like a frightened animal. Even Father appears stunned.

  “I’ve warded the border three days now,” Eric says, “as requested by the Prince.”

  The King turns towards me. “Can this be true, Rupert?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I say.

  More shock and disbelief. I raise my voice over the mayhem.

  “I met Eric three days ago when I traversed the great pass into the Eastlands. I saw the bandits there, and now they have come to us.”

  I almost add the words, “you blind fools,” but I hold my tongue.

  The room explodes in outrage.

  “You crossed our border?” Wiltone says.

  “Yes, with Clyde here – Eric’s cousin,” I say. “Clyde fled the Eastlands to warn us of the bandit threat.”

  Wiltone reddens. “There has been a grievous breach of our security – thanks to our unruly prince!”

  Despite myself, I flinch at the wheedling tone.

  “You’re saying that the Crown Prince invited these brigands to invade us?” General Colfax says.

  Wiltone ignores the General. “Are there other gangs besides this Afflis fellow’s?”

  “Many, sir,” Eric replies, “but I saw only Afflis’ men today. My cousin was once their messenger.”

  All heads swivel toward Clyde. Wiltone stabs a finger at him.

  “You were with these criminals?”

  “Yes, I – ”

  “How else could he learn of their plans to attack us?” I retort. “We should be grateful to him.”

  Father’s face darkens. His massive hands grip the chair arms with such force that I fear the wood might splinter.

  “Filthy vermin!” He slams a fist on the chair arm.

  We all shrink back. The King’s face is hard and dangerous.

  “But Your Majesty,” Wiltone says, “the army is hardly capable of meeting this threat.”

  General Colfax rises to his feet. “They will if they must!”

  “We have to negotiate,” Wiltone says.

  “Negotiate,” Colfax says, “with criminals?”

  “Yes,” Wiltone says. “And is it not suspicious that a foreigner brings us these tidings? Who even knew that such persons existed?”

  “The tidings are grim enough, whoever has brought them,” Colfax says.

  Wiltone waves an arm towards Eric and Clyde.

  “First these alien peasants arrive,” he says, “now the bandits have followed. How convenient!”

  Anger surges through the crowd. I fear they will attack Eric and Clyde any moment. Colfax places a hand on his sword hilt, and people shut up.

  “Often I heard Afflis talk of invading the West,” Clyde says. “I wanted to stop him.”

  “This is the truth, however much you wish to deny it,” I say. “And there have always been people in the Eastlands. Nobody can deny that anymore, either.”

  Wiltone presses his attack.

  “Look at these lads – barbarians. They are not like us. Send them back, I say.”

  The mob growls agreement.

  “We must negotiate with these bandits while we still can,” Wiltone continues. “Maybe we can purchase their aid against whatever other gangs that might appear.”

  “Buy protection from criminals!” Colfax roars. “I’d rather die first.”

  He turns toward Father.

  “Majesty, we cannot parley with thugs. They will not respect weakness.”

  “Well, General,” Wiltone says, “then please tell us about the strength of our army.”

  Colfax hesitates.

  “The boy speaks of a hundred invaders,” Wiltone says, “with many more lurking over our border. We can assume they are all skilled fighters. Is such the case with our own troops?”

  “Everyone knows that we have only a ceremonial force,” Colfax says. “This is as our nobility wished, I might add.”

  Frightened groans fills the chamber. Colfax’s booming voice cuts through the despair.

  “We have 200 soldiers, good men, all. Weapons are in short supply, though, and we lack experience in their use. Such are the facts.”

  The room explodes into heated debate. Most of the braying voices support Wiltone.

  “Make a deal ... Send the foreigners back ...”

  A new and sinister element intrudes. The stench of smoke enters the chamber from outside, slithering under the balcony doors. Everyone notices it at the same time; all disputation stops.

  Father thrusts himself to his feet and strides to the doors. He flings them open and steps outside. In the distance, flames dance like messengers from Hell. At least one cooking fire has apparently been upended, sending its flames onto adjacent buildings. A frightened mewling quivers through the less stout-hearted in the crowd. Father turns of them savagely.

  “Silence!”

  The noise instantly stops. The quiet is so profound that it almost hurts my ears.

  “General Colfax!” Father commands.

  The general snaps to attention. “Sire?”

  “Organize a brigade to quell those fires.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Then prepare the troops,” Father says. “We march against the invaders.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!”

  Colfax salutes crisply and leaves the room with his officers. Wiltone’s smoldering gaze follows them out. Then he and the rest of the mob quickly melt away.

  17: A Plan Takes Shape

  Without the need to appear strong for the onlookers, the props seem go out from under the King. He sinks back into his chair.

  “I never imagined such terrible things could happen, Rupert,” he says. “I thought I could pass Sopronia on to you as peaceful as it has always been.”

  I place a hand on his shoulder. Grief rises up my arm from the King’s heart. He looks suddenly much older that he’d been only minutes before.

  “I dread to think of the good men who must die,” Father says. “
Yet, how can I place our people under the invaders’ boots without a fight?”

  A vacant gaze comes into his eyes, as if he is seeing horrors from a million miles away.

  “And if we should fail ...” His voice trails off.

  Then he seems to rally. He leans toward me and takes a sterner note.

  “So, you knew of this threat,” he says. “Why did you not inform me, Rupert?”

  “Father, I ...”

  He softens a bit and answers his own question.

  “Yes, I know,” the King says, “I would not have believed you. Nobody would.”

  He drops back into his chair.

  “That was a brave and foolish thing you did, son, crossing the frontier.”

  “Clyde led the way. I was quite safe in his hands.”

  Clyde stands more erect amidst the praise and seems to expand to twice his previous volume.

  My heart is a heavy stone, but a plan is forming in my mind. It has lurked there since I first spotted Eric by the wine wagons. Now it is turning into a full-blown and desperate scheme.

  “These thieves are an undisciplined lot,” I say, “accustomed to acting without fear of consequence. Is that not so, Clyde?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Clyde says. “No one can oppose them, so they do as they please.”

  “The passage from the Eastlands is tiring, and there is easy loot to be got here,” I say. “I’m thinking they will stay near the mountain pass to plunder, at least until tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Father says, “why should such wretches act otherwise?”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to catch them by surprise?” I say.

  “How?”

  “By sending out wagons of our strongest drink to ‘accidentally’ fall into the bandits’ hands,” I say.

  Father gives me an astonished look, but my excitement is growing as my devious plan takes shape.

  “Don’t you see, Father?” I say. “They would have a merry time drinking themselves senseless tonight. They would not be alert at dawn when we attack.”

  The whole thing makes perfect sense ... after its fashion. Besides, what else can we do – simply march up to the enemy and get mowed down like wheat before the thresher’s blade?

  “That might be a useful idea.” A glimmer shows in Father’s eyes. “I shall call for volunteers to drive the wagons.”

  “Excellent plan, Your Lordship,” Clyde says. “Those scum won’t expect such cleverness.”

  Father doesn’t seem to have much real hope, though. The brightness soon leaves his face and he retreats into silence. Clyde and I withdraw.

  “Maybe Duke Wiltone can drive a wagon,” I say. “He seems anxious to meet those bandits.”