Royal Recompense
A prisoner rocked subtly as his horse trudged onward. His wrists were bound to his saddle horn and a dingy burlap sack hid his vapid stare. His horse’s steps were echoed by a mounted escort—a dirge that only made him retreat further into his thoughts.
‘Magic is the mark of the devil,’ his father, the king, had declared. The words lingered, branded on the forefront of his thoughts.
‘It is the Almighty God that reigns in our righteous kingdom. Interlopers bearing the devil’s mark are traitors and spies, who shall be dealt with accordingly.
‘Bag him. Escort him away from our fair city. Then, return his soul back to its master. Henceforth, no one shall utter his name. For doing so means communing with the damned—an offense punishable by death.’
Everything afterward was a blur, hollow and distant things that surely meant all of this was but a dream—a dream that had marched him far beyond the city’s high walls and straight into a reality where he could take the precise measure of what love he garnered. His burlap sack demarcated the extent of that support.
A clamor erupted around him—men grunting, swords clashing, and horses charging in opposing directions.
The prisoner raised his head and looked about until sunshine peeked through his mask. He wondered if he would get to feel the sun on his face again before the end.
“Highness,” someone said, nearby.
The prisoner oriented on the voice. Father is here? Has he come to see me on my way?
Someone fiddled with his hand ties, towed him down from his horse, and withdrew his head covering.
He squinted. Looking into the sun was painful, but he welcomed the sensation.
“Highness,” someone repeated, taking him by the elbows.
The former prince focused on the man before him.
His would-be executioner was youthful—blond hair, blue eyes, a square jaw. The man’s expression was urgent, his eyes pleading. “Highness, are you well? Can you fight?”
“Am I—” The prince stammered and looked about. They were on the outskirts of a nearby forest, the tall, thin trees too widespread to snuff out the sky’s vast blue. To its opposite, red doused the landscape. Corpses clung to the ground—their twisted remains a cobblework of flesh in stone’s place. “Father’s men. My escort. What happened?”
“I’m here to see you free, Highness. A contingent of the Inquisition is on its way. Can you fight? If you could but employ a bit of magic, we could be free of our pursuers.”
The prince shook his head. “I can’t. I still don’t know how any of that happened. I can’t even be sure I was the one that did it.”
The man’s lips pressed into a line. He nodded, then looked back along the trail where distant riders thundered along the path, their arrival imminent. He burst into motion, herding the prince back into his saddle. “You’ll have to proceed alone.
“Alone? What about you?”
“I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.” He retrieved, then relinquished the lead rope for his own horse. “Ride on. Switch horses once you cross the river. Send yours running along the trail, then take mine along the river. Once you reach the next town. Find John in the inn. Tell him ‘the true king rises.’”
“Wait, what?”
“Just go!” He slapped the prince’s horse and the world jolted into motion.
He leaned into the gallop, only to immediately tug his reigns, slowing his horse and turning back. His name... He didn’t tell me his name.
The man’s back faced him, a tall sword standing alongside him as he stared down the charging Inquisition. In a blur, the blade left the ground and cleaved through the legs of the first horse.
The encroaching mass crashed around him like a rock met in a river.
The prince gritted his teeth and spurred the horse back into motion. The world around him devolved into wind and thunder. I will find this John. And if he knows not your name, I’ll ride on until I find someone who does. I shall not carry this debt for all of my days.
[WP] The king looked down on the prisoner, his only son, captured for treason and crime against the crown.
