“I’m sorry,” Armedious muttered. “It was the only way.” He stepped away from his father’s body, eyeing a side exit of the tent. He slowly shuffled towards it, hands raised.

“You ain’t gettin’ away!” Sven shouted, charging the Prince. Tearing across the tent, he barreled into his adversary’s leg, trying to knock him over. Armedious grunted, his knees almost folding backwards. Face twisted with new determination, he kicked Sven aside, sending the Goblin skidding across the floor. Sven’s little green head cracked against a pole, where he lay still.

“Please,” Armedious pleaded, “It had to be done! Just let me leave!” He stared at Malcolm, eyes silently pleading with the other human.

Malcolm glanced at Sven lying on the ground. The Goblin weakly groaned, his breath coming in short heaves. I wish I had a knife. Malcolm realized. Out of options, he unbuckled his belt, feeling the thick leather twist in his hands. The iron buckle pulled heavily on the strap as it swung in the air.

Armedious’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “Really?” he taunted, all pretenses of sorrow gone. “You’re going to stop me? With a belt?!” Grinning, he pulled his knife from the sheath, looking it over in the dim light. Blood still stained the blade, dripping to the ground as it sliced through the air. Stepping over the King’s body, he flicked the dagger from hand to hand, feeling its weight. With a growl, he charged Malcolm, knife raised high.

Caught off guard, Malcolm swung his belt out in desperation. The buckle slammed into Armedious’ stomach with a sickening crunch, falling to the ground with a clatter. The Prince doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. “Armedious…” Malcolm warned, raising the belt for another blow. “The guards will be here soon. You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s too late,” Armedious muttered, standing up. “They’re going to hang me. It my life or yours!” Lunging forwards, he thrust his knife at Malcolm. The belt whistled harmlessly over his head, cracking a tent pole.

The knife sunk deep into Malcolm’s right leg, tearing at the flesh and muscle. Immediately, Armedious pulled the blade out, cleaning it with a sleeve.

Malcolm felt a warm liquid running down his leg, seeping deep into his boot. His head pounded. His vision blurred. Waves of pain swept over him. Every sense was over loaded. In-between throbs, he could faintly hear Armedious talking, the words incoherent. NO! Malcolm thought, trying to stay conscious. Not like this... I have to… for the King. He opened his eyes just enough to see King Edvard’s body on the ground, slain by his own son.

Gathering his strength, Malcolm flung the belt out blindly. The leather snapped tight as it made contact, almost jerking out of his hand. Blinking his eyes back to focus, Malcolm tried to find Armedious. The Prince had stumbled a few steps away, clutching his jaw. A dark red blotch covered his cheek.

Head pounding, Malcolm tried to stumble up, leaning on a tent pole for support. I can’t do this too much longer. He realized. Reeling the belt back in, he waited for the Prince’s next move. A few seconds later, Armedious plunged down for another blow, narrowly missing Malcolm’s left leg.

Malcolm swung the belt again, grimacing as it smacked into the underside of Armedious’s jaw. The crack hurt Malcolm’s ears, ringing around his head in endless echoes.

The Prince fell groaning to the ground, jaw stuck out at an odd angle. Coughing, he spat up a tooth. “You win!” he grunted, halfheartedly grinning.

“Really?” Malcolm couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course not!” Armedious chuckled. He kicked out, smashing his heel into Malcolm’s injured thigh. Malcolm collapsed instantly, reeling from the explosion of pain. He could see color. Taste the blood in his mouth. The wound throbbed, pulsing incessantly. He might’ve screamed. He wasn’t sure.

With the last of his strength, Malcolm flicked the belt out, hoping for a lucky shot. The buckle bumped into Armedious’s boot leg with a weak clink.

Brushing himself off, Armedious staggered to his feet. He kicked the belt away, sending it skidding across the dirt floor. Slowly he raised his knife over Malcolm’s head, letting the blade drip onto his adversary. Need. To. Move. Malcolm thought, trying to move his leg.

“STOP!” a voice echoed. Armor clinking, a dozen soldiers rushed into the tent, swords drawn. They fanned out around the edges, slowly forming a semicircle around the prince. “Drop your knife Armedious!” one shouted.

Nodding, Armedious slowly lowered the knife, sheathing it. Taking a look back at his father, Sven, and Malcolm, he slid to the ground, ducking under one of the tent’s walls.

NO!! Malcolm wanted to scream. I should have stopped him… His head pounded, like a thousand smiths hammering in unison. Explosions of pain clouded his vision, twisting and contorting with every breath. He felt like he was under water, desperately clawing towards the surface.

He could vaguely feel himself getting lifted up; the sharp edges of armor pressing into his back. Then the waves of pain swelled again, and he succumbed to the dark depths.

“Well this is certainly familiar,” Oswald joked. His thick mustache bobbed as he chuckled. “I hope this will not become a tradition!”

“Oswald…” Malcolm groaned, reaching for his leg. The rough cloth of bandages rasped against his hands. He lay in his tent, now filled with an assortment of bags, bottles, and bundles of herbs. Sven’s cot was empty, the Goblin’s gear spread out over it.

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Oswald gently moved Malcolm’s hands aside. “The wound was deep. Best not to pick at the bandages already.”

“Sven?” Malcolm asked.

“Quite well. He woke up an hour ago and has already wished upon the former Prince every toe fungus known to man!” Oswald thought for a second. “Or Goblins, for that matter.”

Malcolm chuckled, quickly devolving into a raw groan. Pain filled his heart, burning with every breath. He clutched his chest, tearing at the tunic. After a few seconds, the searing subsided.

“You lost a lot of blood.” Oswald explained. “It’s a miracle you didn’t pass out sooner.”

Malcolm nodded weakly. “Did they catch Armedious?”

Oswald shook his head. “There is a group out searching for him. Last I heard, they headed him off before he could reach the tribes, but he disappeared after that.”

Malcolm could feel himself slipping back into the darkness. “Tell Sven I was awake.” Before he could hear the reply, he let himself relax, and slip into sleep.

When he awoke later, Oswald was gone. Malcolm peeked his eyes open, immediately closing them as rays of morning light blinded his vision. Blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust, he glanced around the tent.

Sven sat by his side, quietly sharpening a knife. He stared intently at the blade, running it down the stone with ferocity. His long green ears draped down, the tips fluttering with every breath.

“Armedious better watch his toes.” Malcolm joked.

Sven jerked up, sheathing his blade. “How do you be feelin’?!”

Malcolm tried to flex his leg, only to be stopped by the tight bindings. The wound ached, flaring up with every movement. It pulsated slightly, like a faint beating heart of pain. “Fine. I guess. Leg hurts.”

Sven grunted. “The Prince’s blade was diggin’ deep.”

Malcolm sighed. Before he could respond, Sven stood up, ducking his head out of the tent. Malcolm strained to hear his words, trying to lean closer to the door. Immediately, his leg exploded in pain, coursing and searing through the rest of his body. Waves of nausea engulfed him, overpowering any thought or sense. All he could do was stare at the ceiling, watching the colors flicker in his vision.

Eventually, Oswald’s gentle touch lured him back to reality. The medic slathered a cool balm over the wound, carefully getting it into every crevice. Malcolm peered down at his leg. A thin line cut diagonally across his thigh, hiding the true depth of the wound. A dozen small black stitches tied the skin together in a ridge.

“Is it better now?” Oswald asked, as he finished with the balm, and began to rewrap the leg. “You pulled some stitches loose. Quite painful, I could imagine.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm groaned. “Where’s Sven? He was talking to someone before I...” He trailed off, his meaning clear.

“They are waiting outside. I would have preferred a bit more space, but Sven was quite insistent on staying close. He almost had to be dragged out of the tent.” He leaned closer, whispering to Malcolm. “Despite his… stabby… exterior, the little thing really does care about you. I would take care not to forget that. True allies are hard to come by these days.” He sighed, standing back up. With practiced ease, he yanked the bandages tight, securing the cloth with metal clasps.

Malcolm could feel the sadness in Oswald’s voice. Armedious, he remembered. His thought was interrupted as Oswald finished the bindings, accidently poking Malcolm’s leg with a clip.

Oswald took a step back, inspecting the leg carefully. “You must certainly be more careful. Those stitches have to hold for another week. Longer if you insist on walking before its ready,” he hung his head disappointedly. “They always do, and then whine that the wound hasn’t healed!” Still muttering, he left the tent. “I shall tell them you are awake!”

Almost immediately, Sven rushed in, leaving the flaps swinging. Behind him trailed General Demisatious and Princess Estrellia. Two guards quietly ducked in after them, standing on either side of the entrance.

Malcolm fumbled for a second trying to bow. Eventually he settled for a deep, slow, nod. “It’s a pleasure to see you, General and Princess.” He greeted each visitor with small awkward wave.

“It’s Queen now.” Demisatious corrected with a smirk. He looked tired. Deep lines of worry covered his forehead, and his eyelids hung low. If he was not bald, Malcolm could imagine any remaining hair would have long since turned gray.

Estrellia scoffed exasperatedly. She wore the royal crown, along with flowing blue and gold robes. Two long pearl earrings clinked as she moved, swaying gently on their hooks. “Despite my best efforts, he insists on crowning me as Queen. Given his experience, he should be the one…”.

“Nonsense!” the General interjected. “You have the finest education of anyone in the Kingdom! I promised your father that I would supervise the proper order of succession and I intend to honor that. It’s your birthright!” he chuckled. “I’d find kingship boring anyway. Give me men and someone to fight, and I couldn’t be happier!”

Sven leaned close to Malcolm. “They’ve been arguin’ the whole time you were sleepin’. It be drivin’ me crazy,” Malcolm tried to suppress his smile, but could feel the edges of his lips twitch. “Also cryin’,” Sven added. “Do all humans be cryin’ so much? Its wonder you get anythin’ done.”

“Did you find… him?” Malcolm asked, changing the subject.

Demisatious sighed, running his hand along the cot’s rough wooden frame. He picked at a splinter, flicking it aside. “Armedious has evaded my boys so far. We just sent another group out to widen the search. Tomorrow we begin checking nearby towns. Best we can do right now is cut off his access to the Tribes. They seem to be his destination.”

“Armedious be as tricky as he is nasty.” Sven added.

An awkward silence filled the tent. No one wanted to discuss what had happened the previous day. I wonder where they buried the King, Malcolm thought, debating about asking.

Before he could decide, a soldier stepped into the tent, whispering something to the General. The bald man nodded, taking Queen Estrellia’s arm. “Some Noblemen have arrived to pay their respects. We must be going.”

Estrellia muttered a goodbye, following her uncle out of the tent. Once the tent flaps closed behind them, Sven excitedly took Malcolm’s arm.

“Remember how I was askin’ the General about makin’ a mask?” he asked. Before Malcolm could reply, he reached into a pouch, pulling out a white piece of leather with long black cords. Seeing Malcolm’s confusion, he tied the cords around his head, pulling it above his eyes.

The leather mask covered most of his face, stretching from his chin to forehead. Made of shiny white leather, it glinted in the morning light, casting tiny reflections. Two eyes holes had been crudely cut out, revealing Sven’s piercing gaze. Malcolm couldn’t help but shutter a bit. A sloppy black smile had been painted onto the mask, reaching to the cheekbones.

“What you be thinkin’?” Sven asked, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Its… unique.” Malcolm muttered. “What was it the Tribes called you? Smiling…”

“’Grinnin’ Fiend,” Sven chuckled, shaking the mask. He pulled it off, shoving it back into the pouch. “The General was havin’ it made for me. I finally was gettin’ it this mornin’.” He grinned, chuckling to himself. Malcolm could see him running his fingers over the mask in the pouch.

He’s happy! Malcolm realized. Sven pulled the mask out again, admiring it like a child on their birthday. He picked at the eyeholes, using his nails to remove a loose clump of leather. Noticing Malcolm’s gaze, Sven hastily put the mask away.

“I best be leavin’,” he said. “Oswald was sayin’ you be needin’ rest.”