The Lost Country

  18: Grim Departure

  Troops jostle in the darkening square with their mishmash of weapons – old swords and bows, rusty daggers. Many have only clubs while others shoulder billhooks better suited for pruning trees than for fighting. There are about three hundred men in all – our ‘regular army’ plus extra volunteers.

  The mist has largely cleared, thank heaven. The air can no longer hold so much foulness and has dumped its burden into the nether regions. A damp and rotten-smelling chill remains.

  Glum civilians watch our muster, the city lurking behind them in the gathering gloom. Much of the northern quarter has been damaged by fire adding an ominous note of despair. The flames have all been quenched, thank heaven.

  The King mounts his great charger and takes his place in the vanguard. I lead Gypsy towards the rear by the hospital wagon. My beautiful horse seems terribly out of place amid so many instruments of death. Clyde stands beside me, grasping a club.

  “Do you wish to ride?”

  I offer him a hand up.

  “No thanks, my lord,” Clyde says. “From down here I can imagine myself as one of the King’s infantrymen.”

  He actually sounds happy with this horrid state of affairs. I am far from cheerful and wish to be someplace else, but duty requires my presence here.

  At first, Father refused to let me come.

  “What if I should fall in battle?” he said. “You must stay behind to assure the continued leadership of our country.”

  This was not sound argument, though. We both know that if the King falls, the army will collapse and there will no longer be any country to lead. I am as safe at the battle front as in my own bed. So, he finally granted permission.

  I am to help tend the wounded. The Royal Physician has given me and the other medics a quick course in first aid. My stomach turns over at the thought of such work, but I simply must do something useful.

  The Queen approaches, looking old and haggard in the dim light. I reach down a hand which she clasps in both of hers.

  “Our time of trial is upon us,” she says. “A poisoned flower that for long has been closed now opens into rank bloom.”

  I can make no sense of her eerie statement. Her words sound distant. She appears foreign somehow, and her voice carries an accent I’ve never noticed before. Such is my turbulent state of mind that I detect all manner of things.

  “Take care, Rupert,” she says. “Stay well away from the fighting. Promise me.”

  “I shall, Mother.”

  She looks toward Clyde.

  “You will watch out for my son, won’t you?”

  “That I will, my lady,” Clyde says. “None shall harm him without they get past me first.”

  The cavalry detachment clatters past to join the King. Mother’s grip tightens on my hand. Torch flames backlight the King’s huge figure. In his gleaming helmet, he looks to be some terrible war god leading us into the inferno.

  “Onward!” he commands.

  We begin moving, weapons clanking in the lifeless air. The crowd watches us with silent dread. Our capital city, once so pleasant in the evening, is now a forbidding place from which men creep away to their doom. Gypsy starts walking. My hand pulls from Mother’s grasp.

  “Farewell ... farewell.”

  As we move away from the city, the dank air freshens and the sky clears. A cool breeze caresses my face, bringing the fragrance of orchards and sparkling streams – the sweet breath of my homeland. I gulp it in, not knowing how much longer I will be able enjoy it.

  My mind drifts into grim ramblings. Ahead of me march our best and bravest men. I try to draw comfort from their presence, but cannot shake the ghastly feeling that I am bringing up the rear of a funeral procession.

  At my belt hangs the Crown Prince’s bejeweled sword, freshly ground to a razor edge. It is worth a fortune, and the bandits would fight among themselves to see who’ll possess it ... once they pry it from my dead fingers.

  ***

  Some miles on, a scout returns from the east, bringing one of the wine wagon drivers with him. The poor fellow is severely battered but still coherent. I trot up to hear his report, Clyde follows me.

  “I’d got nearly to East Towne when the bandits struck,” the wagon driver says. “They knocked me senseless.”

  “Then what?” General Colfax says.

  “When I came to, riotous feasting was going on,” the driver says. “Near my wagon were emptied wine barrels thrown atop piles of sheep guts. At first I thought they was human guts!”

  He shudders violently.

  “Have any of our people been harmed?” Father asks.

  “I know not, Sire,” the driver says, “but murder could burst forth easy enough. Them bandits must have forgot about me, or maybe they thought I was dead. Anyway, I escaped.”

  I am shocked by the driver’s words, but also heartened.

  “Bravo!” Clyde whispers in my ear. “Your Lordship’s plan unfolds splendidly.”

  As the night advances, more scouts report, including Eric who has witnessed the capture of another wine wagon. After giving his account, he vanishes back into the gloom.

  We halt in the last hours of darkness. The enemy are very close now. Their cruel and violent din carries through the air. I drop into the damp grass by the hospital wagon, utterly exhausted, and am soon asleep. Morning will prove if I have been right.

  If I am wrong, then none will survive to reproach me.

  19: Dawn Assault

  Clyde shakes me awake at dawn. “The attack commences!”

  I jump atop the hospital wagon for a better view. Beneath me, down a low hill, our troops are maneuvering through a grassy meadow. Ahead of them, the huddled forms of bandits cluster about the smoldering remains of camp fires.

  The enemy has set no watch! I can scarcely believe such good fortune.

  Our foot soldiers move silent as the mist, crouching in the high grass while the cavalry shields their flanks. The advance halts fifty yards from the enemy. Time stands still.

  From atop his massive horse, the King holds his sword aloft. The coronation sword of Sopronia, never before raised in anger! Our entire history is about to be hacked in two. The voice of war prepares to howl in our land.

  The King slashes the blade down. The infantry takes off at a trot. Frightened little animals scurry away ahead of them, sending ripples through the grass. I draw my own sword, feel its righteous power. Rage at my people’s enemies surges in my heart.

  I jump from the wagon and start running after our troops. Some forgotten warrior strain from Sopronia’s ancient kings burns in my veins, urging me on.

  Clyde catches up with me.

  “Highness, you venture too close.”

  I scarcely know what I am doing any longer. Who is this strange lad running beside me?

  “Pray, stop!” he cries.

  He grabs my sleeve, practically ripping it from my tunic. I halt then and come back to my senses.

  The enemy camp is only a short distance away now. A bandit stirs from his blanket, sees the avenging wave nearly upon him.

  “To arms!” he cries.

  Other bandits struggle up and grope for weapons. Our infantry falls upon them with a mighty roar:

  SOPRONIA!

  All is swirling men and steel, the crash of weapons, screams and curses. I look back for the hospital wagon but cannot see it. Clyde and I stand on the edge of total chaos. Our soldiers cut through the foe like threshers in a wheat field. Behind them lies a battered harvest of fallen enemies.

  A gigantic bandit armed with a poleax emerges from the maelstrom. He looks wildly around, seeking an escape route. Then his pig eyes fix on me – Mulgar! He aims his murderous weapon at me and charge.

  Clyde places himself between me and the onrushing brute.

  “Run, Your Lordship!” he cries.

  Mulgar’s pounding feet shake the ground like an onrushing cave bear. My mind cannot grasp what’s happening, I just stand rooted to the spot.
The bandit swings his weapon. Clyde parries with his club, but the tremendous force of Mulgar’s blow sends him sprawling.

  Then Mulgar lunges at me, thrusting the poleax’s spear point at my chest. I side step. The point rips through my cloak and becomes entangled. Rage bursts through my terror, and I slash back with my sword, inflicting a long gash on the bandit’s arm.

  With a vicious roar, Mulgar yanks his weapon free and swings it at my head. I duck, and the blade whistles past my ear. A mad exaltation pushes the last fear from my mind, and I prepare to triumph or die.

  Then Clyde is back. Slipping in low, he smashes Mulgar’s knee with his club. The bandit howls and drops his poleax. Clyde steps behind him and, wielding his club with both hands, delivers a savage blow to Mulgar’s back. The tremendous thud! sounds above all the other battlefield racket.

  Mulgar collapses like a great tree.

  The battle surges away, leaving us alone in the grassland. Mulgar struggles to rise, but I press my sword point into his face.

  “Stay down, you dog!” I command.

  Mulgar glowers up with pure hatred. I yearn to thrust my blade into his vicious eyes, but he flattens himself on his belly and turns his face away, so I restrain myself. He looks like a filthy heap of garbage, stinks like it, too.

  Clyde picks up the poleax and jabs its point against the bandit’s ribs. Mulgar flinches away.

  “Go ahead, move,” Clyde says. “Give me an excuse to butcher you, like I should have done before!”

  I scan the battlefield for Sopronian wounded, see none. But plenty of bandits litter the ground. Those continuing to resist are being overwhelmed.

  “We’re winning!” I cry.

  Clyde jabs our prisoner with the poleax.

  “Hear that, pig face?” he says. “Your friends are having a hard time of it.”

  The assault reaches a furious crescendo – screams and grunts, the horrid thud of weapons on flesh. Then, the fighting abruptly ceases. All that remains of the bandit gang are heaps of bloodied men. Silence, except for the moaning wounded.

  A mighty cheer rises from our army.

  “Hurrah for King Bertram!”

  I yell along with them, maddened by joy.

  “Hurrah for King Bertram!”

  A bright gleam shoots across the battlefield and enters my spirit.

  20: Victory!

  A party of soldiers comes to fetch our prisoner. It takes two stout men to muscle the bandit lieutenant to his feet. The squad leader points to Clyde’s poleax.

  “Give me that weapon, boy,” he says.

  “No, let him keep it,” I say. “He’s earned a victory prize.”

  “Very well, my lord,” the squad leader says.

  Clyde beams with pleasure. “Thanks!”

  The soldiers lead Mulgar away, assisting him with punches and kicks.

  “Your Lordship should attend to his wound,” one of them calls back.

  Wound?

  Then I notice a warm trickle on the left side of my face. I raise a hand, and it comes back bloody. The tip of my ear is missing! Sharp pain jabs into my life.

  “Ow!”

  Everything suddenly becomes much less rosy, and I sit down quickly so as to avoid fainting. The Royal Physician’s chief assistant trots up and examines me.

  “This doesn’t look too bad,” he says.

  Easy for him to talk. I don’t see any blood running down his face. He sprinkles a pain-killing powder on my ear.

  “Save that for the seriously wounded,” I snap – though I am plenty glad to get the medication.

  Clyde stands by grinning broadly, as if he is watching me receive some great award. I feel shamed by his approval. The medic finishes bandaging my ear and departs.

  “I am sorry, Clyde,” I say, “for being so reckless and nearly getting you killed.”

  “Think no more of it, Your Lordship.” He beams with pride. “Such a noble injury! Would that I bore some token upon my own person to honor this great day.”

  “Yes ... well. Consider that we have both been sufficiently honored,” I say. “I should have been more cautious.”

  “It’s all the same to a Royal soldier.” Clyde thumps his chest. “Everyone in the Eastlands will know that it was me, Clyde, who fought beside their future king in the opening battle for their liberation.”

  I touch my bandage gingerly. “You seem to expect much additional conflict.”

  “That I do, Your Lordship.” Clyde gestures toward the defeated bandits. “There’s plenty more scum such as them.”

  Then he grasps my hands and speaks with the frank equality of a comrade-in-arms.

  “We of the East are an abandoned people in a lost country. Come and claim us ... please.”

  A shadow descends on us. I look up to see Father astride his horse. Anger shines from him like the rays of some dark sun.

  “Rupert!”

  “Yes, Father.”

  My voice sounds tiny in my wounded ear.

  “I ordered you to stay back from the battle. Why did you disobey?”

  “I ... w-well, I ...”

  “I see that you are wounded,” Father says. “You might have been killed. What then for the future of your country?”

  Deepest humiliation sears through me. Even a stab of pain would be a welcome diversion, but the medicine has denied me even that mean relief.

  “It was really my fault, Your Majesty,” Clyde says.

  I spin toward him. After all he’s done for me, I cannot allow him to take the blame.

  “No, Clyde, it was not your fault,” I say.

  The King waves an arm toward our troops.

  “One day you will be commanding this army, Rupert. How can you expect to give orders if you don’t first learn to obey them?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I got carried away.”

  I almost wish that Mulgar had sliced my entire head off. Thank heaven, an officer trots up just then with the casualty report.

  “None of our men have been killed, Sire,” he says. “Thirteen are wounded, none seriously.”

  The King’s face brightens. “Excellent!”

  He turns his horse around and prepares to leave.

  “We will return to the city with the prisoners,” he says to me over his shoulder. “Then I shall take the army to scout the borders. You will remain behind, Rupert. Understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Use the time to think about your responsibilities.”

  I keep my eyes fixed to the ground, my face burning with shame. Father starts to ride off, then he pauses.

  “Your plan worked, Rupert,” he says. “Our country thanks you.”

  Then he is gone. I feel proud enough to explode.

  21: The Captives

  I report to the hospital wagon, but the Royal Physician does not require my help, so slight have our casualties been. He examines my injury and declares his satisfaction with the treatment I have received.

  “Come then, Your Lordship,” Clyde says. “Let’s visit our foes.”

  We trot off toward the miserable group of captives sitting in the grass. They look up mournfully as we approach. Fear and bitterness shows on their coarse faces – except for the one I recognize as Lieutenant Talbot who maintains a sad dignity amid their defeat.

  His left arm has suffered injury, and he clutches it with his good hand. Our eyes meet for a few moments before he looks away.

  The King approaches the sorry group.

  “Who is your leader?” he demands. “Does the wretch still live?”

  A tall, brutal-looking man stands up. I recognize him as well. Father motions him to approach.

  “What is your name?” the King demands.

  “Captain Afflis, Your Majesty.”

  Violence simmers in Afflis’ pale gray eye. The other eye is swollen shut. He seems a vicious animal beaten into submission, but still very dangerous.

  “I trust our country pleases you,” Father says. “Enjoy the scenery while y
ou can, as you will be hanged by sunset.”

  Afflis’ eye widens. Father waves his arm over the bandits.

  “All of you will suffer the same punishment for violating our fair land!”

  A horrified gasp shoots through the bandits, and our men close in to squelch any rebellion. Two soldiers manhandle Afflis back to his place.

  This is a harsh sentence, and I almost feel a tinge of pity for our defeated enemies. But the King’s justice cannot be gainsaid, however stern it may be.

  Then I recall Clyde’s remark that many gang members had been drafted unwillingly. Might some of these wretches be worth saving – might they even be useful to us? I follow the King as he strides away.

  “Father?”

  He turns and looks down from his great height. The sun shines around his head and through the hairs of his flowing beard. He seems a majestic tree in the morning light.

  “Yes?” he says.

  I freeze, overawed. Never before have I asked the King to change a decision he’s made.

  “Well, what is it, Rupert?”

  I gather my courage to speak.

  “Would such a general execution be advisable,” I say, “or should only the worst ones hang – the leaders and such?”

  “And what of the rest, then?”

  “We could put them to work,” I say. “Perhaps we could compel the better fighters to instruct our army. The troops sorely need training.”

  Father strokes his beard thoughtfully.

  “Yes, some of this rabble might prove useful.”

  He actually seems relieved to back off from his blanket death sentence. Such harshness must not come easily to him.

  He returns to the bandits.

  “The Crown Prince has requested mercy on your behalf,” he says, “and I have decided to grant it to the less wicked among you. Your sentences, therefore, will be determined by a court of inquiry. Those who do not hang will atone for their crimes with hard labor.”

  The defeated bandits glance uneasily at each other, every man wondering if he will be among the hanged.

  Father mounts his horse.

  “Physician!” his mighty voice booms.

  The doctor emerges from the hospital wagon.

  “Here, Your Majesty!”

  “Have all our wounded been cared for?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Tend to the captives, then.”

  ***

  I join the Royal Physician and his other helpers as they move among the bandits. Soldiers accompany us, ready to strike down anyone who might try to molest us. As always, Clyde is with me.