Chapter 6 — Doubt

The most fascinating thing Soranth had found out in the past few rests about the newcomers was that they were made of stone. This was learned the hard way when he didn’t believe their claims and Haraldr punched him in frustration. The twin apologised after that of course, terrified that the Prince would complain to his mother and they’d be kicked out. Instead, Soranth had calmly blinked at their horrified faces, right hand clutching his bleeding nose and said, “I suppose I had that coming.”

With that, the wall between Soranth and Haraldr completely vanished and within one system, they were roughhousing together as if they’d been friends for years. Valda, on the other hand, was wholly unimpressed. She rebuffed all attempts at friendly overtures, turned up her nose whenever he came into the room and didn’t hesitate to insult Soranth at any opportunity. He never reacted outwardly to her taunts, coolly taking it in stride and acting as if nothing happened.

Things came to a head two systems after they first arrived as the fractured trio were walking along the corridor leading to the palace courtyard. Soranth was pointing out the fluorescent pixy bines to Haraldr who began sweeping his hand across swathes of the tiny flowers as they passed, watching with excitement as they wilted to a pastel yellow and fell limp at his touch.

“How stupid.” Valda sneered. “What’s the use of flowers if you can’t touch them?”

Her statement would have been amongst the least insulting things she had said to him yet it also seemed to finally break Soranth’s calm facade. His fists squeezed tight, his arms trembling with tension as he tried to hold himself back. Haraldr shot his sister an angry look and hesitantly set a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “She didn’t mean that,” he began.

“Of course she did,” Soranth bit out. “It’s all she’s been doing this whole time.” He pressed his eyes shut, trying to recall all the years of lessons his mother had given him on diplomacy and tact. “Look, I know you don’t like me,” was what came out rather than what he’d intended to say. He pushed on regardless, “But if you hate what makes Maraciel the way it is, then why are you here?”

The twins stiffened.

“If you were from the lab down in the bunker,” he continued, referring to the underground bunker Chulsa had told him about, “then how did you end up in the Vermillion Plains? Why are you only waking up now? Why do you look so young compared to the others? What aren’t you telling us?” Soranth demanded, increasing in volume with each question.

A heavy silence drew around them as Haraldr gaped and Valda crossed her arms. Before either one of them cracked, they were interrupted by the clopping of hooves. As one, they turned to look at the courtyard entrance where a warrior-in-training chemycus was leading a youngling who shared his black locks and piercing blue eyes. The guard froze at the sight of them and rubbed his hand behind his head sheepishly.

“My Prince! I—we didn’t see you there. Bow,” he hissed at his younger counterpart as he did so himself. The younger chemycus stared at them with a belligerent expression and didn’t attempt more than a slight twitch of his head.

“Nathanael, right?” Soranth turned to look at them fully as he vaguely recalled the guard’s face at the initiation ceremony a few systems ago, completely forgetting his impromptu interrogation with the twins. “You brought someone...?” He trailed off, hoping the guard would fill him in. They didn’t usually receive any visitors this young at the castle, making it a very lonely childhood for him.

“Ah, yes!” The guard stuttered slightly, adjusting the still stiff forest green sash around his chest. “This,” he said, clapping a hand on the youngling’s shoulder, “is my nephew Cresil. I’m just showing him around. My apologies, my Prince, I probably should have checked with the General first for permission,” he said, wincing slightly. “But he really wanted to come.”

“It’s alright,” Soranth said, giving him a reassuring smile as he waved away Nathanael’s excuses. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Go on, enjoy yourself. I won’t tell mother.”

The guard’s eyes widened even as his nephew continued to glare at the Prince. “Thank you, my Prince! I truly appreciate this, I—”

“NATHANAEL!” A voice boomed from the throne room. Nathanael’s face fell.

“Sounds like the General,” Soranth pointed out.

“I—I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for a favour, my Prince. Could you please just watch him for a few seconds while I go?”

The Prince acquiesced with a nod, watching as the guard practically galloped down the corridor. Then he turned back to the youngling who now had his arms crossed. Soranth was beginning to think that the frown on the boy’s face was a permanent one.

“Cresil, was it?”

“Screw you.”

Soranth struggled not to let any reaction other than a widening of his eyes show but Haraldr didn’t restrain himself.

“Hey!” his new friend shouted. “You little brat, how dare you say that to the Prince!”

“What are you, his dog?” Cresil’s features twisted into an ugly sneer, cold eyes shifting to glare at Haraldr. Valda stepped back, looking incredibly entertained. Soranth wasn’t sure if he was glad or annoyed to finally see a smile on her face. He decided to go with a mixture of surprise and indignation instead.

If his skin wasn’t already crimson, Haraldr would have turned bright red. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to use such bad language?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to lick people’s boots?” the chemycus taunted, dropping his arms as he pranced on the spot. “I’m the Prince’s friend, I can do anything! Look at my hard rock skin, my brain’s the same too!”

“Oi!” Valda snapped, her eyebrows snapping together. “You can insult my brother but don’t pull me into this!”

“Stay out of this sissy,” he snapped back with equal vitriol. Soranth had no idea where this attitude was stemming from. “My brother works here.”

Ah, Soranth thought.

“So what?” Haraldr challenged. “We live here.”

“That’s even worse—he got picked but they’re stuck with you two rockheads!”

“That’s it.” Haraldr and Valda said in unison as they stomped forward. Haraldr reached first, his right arm pulling back and biceps bunching as he approached the arrogant chemycus.

Cresil refused to go down without a fight. He kicked out with his small but knobby forelegs, catching Haraldr even as his punch connected painfully with the chemycus’ kneecap.

Haraldr yelped as Cresil’s hooves collided into his chest. By then, Soranth had darted forward, restraining Valda from exacting vengeance. “Stop! Just stop, both of you!” He only let go of Valda’s shoulders when she stopped struggling, her muscles falling lax in his hold.

Her brother fell back as well, massaging the practically unnoticeable indents on his literally rock-hard chest. Cresil, on the other hand, ignored his command.

“Hey!” A horrified voice shouted from the other end of the corridor. “What do you think you’re doing?”

It was Nathanael. The Queen was close behind him, along with Chulsa and the Royal Guard General. Soranth squeezed his eyes shut and sighed.

That was the day the three of them solidified their friendship.

----------------------------------------

“I don’t suppose you have any water with you,” he shouted down the spiral staircase. His voice carried easily, bolstered by the sturdy grey stone that made up the circular tower. Silence was the only reply and he sighed, pulling his tail away from a particularly sharp pile of shingles. “A spy’s life is never easy.”

Kobal surveyed what had become his home for the past few rests, once again finding himself regretting every single course of action in his life that had led to this moment. If only he hadn’t left his village that fateful night… but it was too late to regret it now.

“Guess I’ll just get it myself then,” he remonstrated to an unmoving heap of rubble. He walked to the edge of his open-aired prison cell.

Looking over the looming drop, he held back the remaining contents of his stomach as it threatened to reveal itself rather violently all over the floor. “I can do this, I can do this,” he psyched himself up, reflexively brushing his salt-and-pepper moustache.

Kobal Lynchwood, master spy extraordinaire, lowered himself tail-first over the crumbling tower and with an audible gulp, released his hold off the edge.

----------------------------------------

“Hey,” the more annoying Lieutenant nudged Soranth as he blinked up at the stretched black canvas of their tent. “Hey, you awake?”

“Yes, Har,” the Prince answered patiently. “And if I wasn’t before, I certainly am now.”

“You remember me saying there was something missing from the map? In the General’s office?”

“Yeees...”

“I remember what it is now!” Haraldr sounded way too excited for the bone-tired Soranth, ticking off an unknown peeve. The Prince reached out with the nearest weapon at hand—it was his empty scabbard—and whacked his best friend with it.

“Good. Tell me tomorrow.” Then he turned over and fell back asleep in seconds. Suffice to say, Soranth didn’t recall the late conversation from two rests ago and Haraldr didn’t remind him either. That was, until now.

“This was what you forgot to tell us huh?” Soranth gave his Lieutenant the evil eye as he wove between the quick legs of the monstrous beast. Haraldr shrugged and threw his favourite spear—distinct only because of the four spokes of gold in a diamond formation—to try and at least trap one of its four quick legs.

“You didn’t want to listen!” He yelled back, dodging as the furious mother Slyrdion rained hell on them. The beast was at least three times the size of the one that had initially attacked them. It boasted an odd birth defect down its underside, beginning with a thin line at the curve of its neck before extending down in an expanding streak of white. The contrast was mesmerising, almost hypnotic in the way it drew Soranth’s eyes to it rather than the sharp teeth he should be paying closer attention to.

“How would I know you were talking about a Slyrdion nest?!” Soranth ducked as the rattling tail came close to slamming into his head. The buzz of its tail had settled in his senses like a loud hum at the back of his mind, interrupting and dislodging his plans like a scattering swarm of fleeing frivans. He shook his head to clear it but the ringing returned insistently, taking up all the room in his mind. Irritated, he jumped back for a break as Valda switched places with him, dashing forward with her sword pointed low towards the ground.

“Prince,” Clone Chulsa announced, scaring Soranth into almost dropping his sword.

“What,” he panted.

“Cresil is stirring up the soldiers.”

“In a good way?” He shot a look at his advisor, heart falling at the arthropod’s negative head shake.

“He’s saying you’re trying to get a reputation, that you’re showing off by not allowing them to fight.” The clone snapped its mandibles in a way Soranth knew meant it was angry, yet he had never seen such an expression on the real Chulsa before.

“That’s ridiculous,” he argued as he checked on the twins. They were holding up quite well with Valda taking the initiative and leaping on the black hound’s back. Her faithful nagacougar was engaging the beast’s attention by zigzagging in front of it, slashing at its snout when it tried to dislodge Valda. Haraldr had turned his focus to a reddish dust-covered paw and was in the middle of sneaking up to slice its tendons. However, he wasn’t doing too good a job with the glimmering fat jewel around his neck catching the dim starlight in the worst of ways. “What are the Generals doing?”

“They tried to stop him but when he asked them to explain why you’d taken over the fight, they couldn’t come up with an answer.”

Soranth cursed, his eyes flicking to the vast empty plain on his right. Disappointment warred with indignation. Why didn’t they defend me? They’ve seen me train, they know me so why... He could feel his thoughts spiralling deeper into a dangerous trap—something that he couldn’t afford in the middle of battle. “Fine. Fine. Call them,” he instructed, shelving his insecurities for the moment. “We’ll do this their way.”

“Yessir!” He ignored Clone Chulsa’s smart salute—somehow the clone had mastered twisting his mandibles to do just that—and focused on dissecting the beast’s frenzied actions as it finally threw Valda off, sending Haraldr and the nagacougar scurrying away. The mother raised its arched neck and howled, a long daring call that had Soranth’s hand twitching to interrupt it.

He reached down for his dagger only to find it missing. “Dammit! Where did the blasted thing go!” He switched to the other leg which thankfully still had a dagger attached. “Chulsa, get me my spear!” he yelled. “And a dagger!” By then, their enemy had ceased and jumped back several leaps, gathering herself just as the Generals arrived. Cresil was with them.

The beginnings of a plan announced itself in the recesses of his mind. “Step on up,” he tilted his head invitingly at the suddenly hesitant Lieutenant. Guilt lurked in the chemycus’ eyes but it was quickly replaced by an arrogant toss of his mane. “You haven’t battled a Slyrdion hound before so whatever I say goes, understand?” The Prince didn’t spare a look at his Generals, preferring to issue his orders into the cool air.

“We’re going for a frontal breakthrough, we overwhelm the beast quick and fast. I want our people in groups, attack one after the other. Tight movements,” he continued, glaring at the chemycus till he reluctantly bowed his head in understanding, “the moment one group runs out of weapons, I want the next already on her. This means formations, ranks. Got it?”

“Yes sir!” All three of them said. Sablo stepped forward as if he wanted to say something, his expression twisted in remorse. “My Prince,” the chief faun pleaded, when Soranth strode past.

“Not now, General.” Soranth held up his hand, his emerald eyes as hard as frosted gems. “You have your orders.”

The General stood there for several moments, staring at his retreating back before turning to join his compatriots. Valda had fallen back from the battle to join him, leaving Haraldr alone in distracting the beast. Her pet also seemed to take some sadistic delight in drawing the beast closer to Haraldr and shoving him out of the way at the last moment when the claws drew too near for comfort.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

“It won’t work and you know it,” she said quietly, wiping the edge of her blade on the side of her silver scabbard. A bright crimson puddle of blood formed near her feet. He turned his head towards her slightly as she watched him with cool eyes.

“I know.” His shoulders relaxed a little, taking comfort in the fact that there was at least one person who would always be on his side.

“What’s your plan?”

“It begins with my spear,” he began dramatically, “and ends with my spear.”

She glared at his mischievous grin. “Seriously? Is now the time for jokes?”

“Who said I was joking?” He opened his arms and eyes wide, looking as innocent as newborn. Almost right on cue, Clone Chulsa sent a spear flying straight into the palm of his hand. The dagger didn’t make it however, landing in a cloud of dust behind him. Soranth jumped forward, deciding to forget about the dagger. His spirit had mysteriously lifted during their conversation and he wasn’t about to waste the boost of energy on pointless talk.

“Max!” Valda called after him. She resisted the urge to stamp her foot, giving in after a few seconds as the Prince joined the fray without another look back.

The Generals had done a brilliant job of whipping the troops in shape. Teams of ten warriors with an even mix of archers and sword-bearers were soon pitted against the rampaging beast. The hound had dealt easily with the first few groups of terrified soldiers but struggled as they gained confidence. Cresil was in the centre of things, directing which team would replace the next.

Soranth, while preparing to throw his spear, had given a quick once-over the troops, his mouth tightening as he noticed each team only consisted of either fauns or chemycus. He had hoped the Generals would take his—admittedly rather subtle—hint and start working together at last but to no avail. Haraldr yelped as the hound unintentionally slammed her snout into his body as she twisted around to face the new group of soldiers.

She was tiring, that much was obvious. Now he only needed to follow the next phase of his plan. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Soranth focused on calming his heartbeat. For a second, his heart betrayed him, drumming in his ears with a stubborn insistence. He wrestled with his body as adrenaline struggled to pump as much blood and energy as possible. He needed to be calm.

Calm and focused. Calm—

His eyes shot open as his mind hit equilibrium, his arm releasing the balanced weight of the spear at the height of a powerful overhand throw. The spear flew in a straight line, borne by the strength of his throw, right at the white patch at the beast’s chest.

Unexpectedly (yet deep down Soranth had suspected it might happen), Cresil managed to interrupt the path of the spear by stepping into its path and batting it away with a great metallic clang on his shield. He had ordered two groups of chemyci to attack and instead of standing back as he had previously, the Lieutenant had sprung forward, joining the fray with a loud war-cry. Two groups of chemyci meant twenty combatants surrounding the beleaguered beast.

It was too much. The beast roared, lowering its snout to the ground and baring sharp canines as it did so. Instead of faltering as Cresil had probably been hoping for, being over-crowded seemed to ramp up its attack patterns. The Slyrdion mother speared its teeth right through the body of a warrior, killing him instantly, and began to use the warrior as a weapon and shield against his own kin.

The other warriors hesitated, unwilling to hurt their already dead comrade even further and that proved to be their downfall. The hound swung the dead warrior in a wild, defensive circle with its snout, the legs of the chemycus whipping across their faces and bodies. Sharp hooves that the chemycus had once prided in dug into armour, tearing it off and brutally scoring tender skin and colliding with fragile skulls.

If at all any survived, they would be so horribly disfigured that none would be able to continue battle. Ironically, Cresil was the only one left standing. He had dropped his spear with shaking hands, eyeing the carnage surrounding him. The beast dropped the mauled body of his comrade right at his feet, stalking closer with its body pressed low to the ground.

Soranth didn’t have time to think. In retrospect, they would regret saving Cresil then and there but at that moment, every life counted. Moving as a smooth unit, Valda scored the ground before the beast in a line of arrows while Haraldr had somehow managed to embed one of his daggers into the beast’s left flank. Yet it wasn’t enough to halt it.

Darting forward to where his spear had fallen, the Prince used his foot to flick the spear into his hand, barely breaking his stride as he did so. The hound advanced on Cresil’s frozen form, lips pulled back in a snarl as saliva dripped from its canines.

“Cresil, move!” He yelled at the Lieutenant but his efforts, along with Valda and Haraldr’s warnings were futile. The warrior was in shock. Soranth’s feet pounded on the ground, heels slamming into the hard, rocky terrain. There was no way he would be able to get between the Lieutenant and Slyrdion in time.

Almost like a physical snap in the air, something in the Slyrdion’s slitted pupils changed and Soranth knew this was it. It lunged forward, jaws wide. The diameter of its open mouth was enough to swallow Cresil’s upper body whole, barbed tongue at the ready to strip flesh off bones. Soranth was close enough that he could smell the acrid smell of raw, rotting meat rolling from its mouth.

Just as the beast’s long snout closed in on a wide-eyed, terrified Cresil, Soranth was close enough that he slid underneath Cresil’s twitching legs and underbelly. His momentum carried him all the way to the other side, right on time to pull the spear up and through the hound’s vulnerable neck. The spear slid right through vital arteries and thick muscles, the very tip protruding from the top of its neck like a tiny, glinting diamond.

For the second time that day, Soranth was bathed in a river of hot liquid, rushing down the length of his spear. He was still half-laid out on the ground at Cresil’s feet which wasn’t the best place to be in as the hound, still leaning forward from attacking Cresil, proceeded to topple in his direction. His arms were strong but not strong enough to carry the dragging weight on his spear. Soranth groaned, pushing with all his might against the beast so it wouldn’t collapse on top of them.

Just as he could feel his weakening muscles begin to cave from the strain, arms wrapped around his chest, heaving him straight out from under the beast. Cresil had finally gotten over his shock. The Slyrdion hound, dead on the instant the spear had pierced its thick hide, crumpled on the ground where Soranth had been mere seconds ago. It fell harder through the spear until almost a hand-length of the weapon was pushed through the other side.

Through the large cloud of red dust rising in the air from the force of its landing, Soranth could see the faint silhouettes of his Lieutenants and men running up. He winced, feeling the burn of sliding on the rough terrain as it scraped the back of his scalp and unprotected elbows.

“My Prince,” Haraldr said as he reached them first with the amber necklace bouncing off his heaving chest, a note of awe in his voice, “I think you should start wearing your armour if you keep pulling off moves like that.”

Soranth simply groaned and allowed his head to drop back to the ground.

----------------------------------------

They settled for a rest not far from the beast’s corpse but far enough that the creeping stench of decomposition couldn’t reach them. The troops were too desolate from their pyrrhic victory to travel further—that much was clear from their shuffling feet. The Prince had immediately shut himself in his tent, closing his eyes and ears to the world. His Lieutenants eyed him worriedly but guarded the tent from any curious passers-by, including two particularly insistent Generals.

“No one gets in,” Haraldr said stiffly, looking straight into the distance. The flares of several campfires lit the darkness as the army slowly settled. Valda was nowhere in sight but Haraldr knew she was nearby, guarding the entrance with her nagacougar just as overzealously. He was pretty sure he even spotted several fauns tumbling head over heels in the dust for talking too loud near the tent but then again, that could have just been his imagination.

“Har, please.” Sablo looked exhausted. Bruised bags under his eyes joined up with long wrinkle lines near his mouth. His lips and forehead looked like they were locked in a permanent frown and the chief’s proud shoulders were sagged under the weight of an invisible burden. “Please.”

“We have to see him,” Nathanael said gravely. If Haraldr had thought Sablo looked bad, the chemycus chief was in a much worse condition. He had, after all, just lost a large portion of his warrior force to the Slyrdion predator—a devastating blow to the chief who took such pride in his well-trained royal guards. “We need to talk.”

“You can talk when he’s rested.”

“Haraldr, this is urgent,” the General growled, levelling a hard glare at his past student.

“The Prince’s rest is urgent,” Haraldr said as he picked at his nails. They are rather oddly shaped aren’t they, he mused as he fiddled with the broad, blunted edges of his translucent nails.

Sablo stepped closer, eyes begging for a chance. “Listen, you know what happens out there, it was all so quick we didn’t know what to say—”

“You could have defended him!” the Lieutenant snarled at the taken-aback Generals. Clone Chulsa, through a veritable barrage of insults aimed at Haraldr’s inadequate intelligence, upbringing and even physical traits, had given the trio a full run-down on what had happened during the battle. “You could have said something to stop the army from rioting and following Cresil!”

“Rioting is an overstatement—” Nathanael began.

“Raising their weapons and cheering for Cresil when we were the ones out there fighting that beast, putting our lives in danger, is not called rioting?” Valda’s deceptively smooth voice spoke from the shadow of a nearby tent. She stepped into the light, slinking closer with a careless air. “Perhaps it became a riot when they started calling for Cresil to become the new Lord Commander of the Royal Army? Or maybe it was when they started calling the Prince a royal arrogant upstart that didn’t know his own sword from a stick!” Her voice grew louder with each accusation, drawing attention to the tent.

“Enough,” a gravelly voice spoke behind Haraldr, startling the Lieutenant.

“My Prince,” Haraldr protested.

Valda, still furious with the upset Generals, turned on him. “You should be resting!”

“I’ve rested enough.” Soranth’s clipped words were as harsh as the expression on his face. “If you want to talk, let’s talk. Let’s have a meeting, just us generals and lieutenants.” He looked at them, unflinching and unforgiving.

Sablo shakily bowed his head and replied humbly, “We would be honoured, my Prince.”

The crowd Valda had drawn receded under her murderous stare, excuses and sounds of soldiers tripping in their haste floating in their wake. They all filed into Soranth and Haraldr’s shared tent silently, none willing to break the ice-thin atmosphere. Cresil and Alizar trailed in behind the last of them, closing the tent with a final slap of canvas.

Before they even had a chance to begin, Soranth suddenly straightened, realising someone was missing from the scene. “Where’s Rizoel?”

Sablo’s shoulders, already impossibly low, sank ever closer to the ground. Soranth’s face cleared of all expression as he mentally—and unconsciously—prepared himself for bad news. “He’s gone,” the General’s voice was terrible, cracking unevenly at times. “I sent him—ahem!—sent him to scout when we noticed the stars had shifted again but he never came back. I was afraid... I was afraid we’d find his corpse.”

The tension in the room ratcheted up. Nathanael laid an understanding hand on his counterpart’s shoulder. Sablo seemed to recognize what his fellow General wasn’t saying, shooting a quick and small upturn of lips at him.

Even without knowing the young Lieutenant personally, he could not deny the potential the soldier had in the brief times he had seen him. Soranth’s emotions wrestled within him. Anger at such a young fleeting life being ripped away without the opportunity to truly experience life roared in the depths of his mind. Despair began wailing its deadly toll as he was once more presented with the hopelessness of their situation. And a deep sorrow for the fear Rizoel must have gone through.

He slammed his hand on the table they had surrounded, startling those closest to him. “Sorry,” he muttered, the fury draining out of him as suddenly as it appeared. Anger wouldn’t solve the predicament they were in at all. What was required was cool, clear-headed and rational discussion on how to proceed and how they could recover from their losses before the real battle even began. Gathering his thoughts, he began the conference. “Let’s discuss what could have been done better in the previous battle.”

----------------------------------------

It was several hours into their discussion when they were interrupted by a soldier yelling for them outside. By then, Cresil had been demoted and kicked out and Sablo had spent several of those gruelling hours refusing to take on another Lieutenant after losing the previous two. When the calls for them approached, an urgent note in the soldier’s tone, the Generals had immediately jumped up and looked to the Prince for permission.

“Go,” he urged, following them out of the tent alongside his own Lieutenants. Soranth was largely satisfied with the results of their meeting, having convinced both Generals that what was needed was unity rather than internal power clashes. This was the argument that took the longest to resolve and by the time it was over, even Clone Chulsa had collapsed flat on the ground, exhausted from trying to stop the two Generals from getting physical.

In fact, he was still trudging around as close to the ground as possible, thorax pressed low and wings hiding most of his long, segmented body. Therefore, when Soranth stopped in his tracks, blocking Haraldr and Valda from exiting the tent, Clone Chulsa was still hanging behind, utterly clueless of what was happening. He perked up slightly. “What’s going on?”

“Unbelievable...” Soranth breathed.

“It’s a miracle!”

“He’s alive!”

“Who’s alive?” Clone Chulsa demanded trying to circle around the legs of those blocking him. “Let me see!”

The entire army was out from their respective tents, whooping and cheering as a dust-coated, exhausted faun dragged himself all the way to the Generals’ tent with the help of his fresh comrades.

“Rizoel,” Sablo greeted, his voice hoarse with relief. The tension and guilt eased from his shoulders. “Thank heavens.” When the two fauns, General and Lieutenant, met, it was unclear who was supporting who. “I thought I sent a man to his death!”

The faun Lieutenant grimaced, his grimy face and matted fur spoke depths of what he had been through. “No,” he croaked, “You’ll have to try much harder to get rid of me, General!”

Finally, Soranth thought unable to hide his growing smile as he scanned the celebrating troops, we have something to celebrate.

“Tell us then,” he said, raising his voice slightly over the din. Rizoel jerked at attention and Soranth realised this would be the first time he had ever addressed the young faun. “What have you seen?”

Rizoel looked rather overwhelmed when he finally took in his expectant audience, all consisting of some of the highest ranks in the entire kingdom. He stumbled over his words, nervously fiddling with his two swords hanging by his waist. “I—I got to—You must understand it wasn’t, I mean, there wasn’t a lot I could see in the darkness. I tried to get as close as possible I really did, but I was afraid they might see me and—”

“Calm down, Lieutenant. This is not an interrogation.”

The faun took a deep shuddering breath and spread his legs in a military stance, arms back and shoulders straight. Sablo looked on from the side, the deep lines on his face crinkling in a proud smile. “I think I stumbled across the Honeycomb Valley, sir.”

Everyone straightened their postures, leaning forward unconsciously. Soranth’s verdant eyes glimmered with interest. “And...?”

“I saw...” his voice grew rough and crackled with disuse.

“Water!” Sablo demanded of a nearby soldier, who hurried off to melt a block of ice over one of the many fires. Water froze at the temperatures planet Earth now stood at, requiring them to constantly melt ice over a fire in order to drink if they were far away from the rivers of Maraciel. As usual, their tropical kingdom was the one exception to that rule where the temperature stayed chilly but never dropped below freezing.

Rizoel soldiered on through several hacking coughs. “I—I saw the abyss. It was a great divide between where I stood—between the Vermillion Plains and Mt. Zarphan. There is no way to cross the abyss... except for a single bridge some way down the cliff. I don’t know what a honeycomb is,” he said, darting a nervous glance at Soranth, “but there was a wide pathway leading down the cliff side and it passed many large caves as far as I could see.”

The soldier Sablo had summoned ran up, carrying a tin of freshly boiled water that was quickly frosting over in a cracked sheet of pale blue. Rizoel downed the entire contents within seconds. Nathanael, unable to withhold his curiosity any longer, stepped forward and in his gruff manner, questioned him, “What was on the other side? Did you see an army? Was there an army there?”

Soranth was certain that if it were one of his own soldiers, the chemycus General would have reached out and shook the man by his shoulders. However, he also wished to know the answer to his General’s question and turned expectantly to face Rizoel’s suddenly nervous face.

“That’s the problem sir,” the faun said hesitantly, not looking up from his cup, “It was empty. There was no one there.”

Nathanael took a step back, an ashen look on his face. Soranth would have laughed if he too were not wearing a similar expression. The main leaders of the royal army exchanged looks that were shadowed by the stealthy but devastating emotion known as doubt.

Haraldr spoke up first—as usual—and his tentative question only gave voice to their uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

“I swear,” the faun said solemnly as he looked straight at the Prince, “I sat on that cliff top for hours. I saw nary a movement, not even the slightest twitch. It was like looking at...at a dead land.”

xxx

A Visitor’s Guide to Maraciel — by Royal Adviser Chulsa

For our lessons today, we’re looking a little further afield. Yes, I mean the western plains. The creatures that can usually be found out there, aside from you two, are far more dangerous than the ones within our borders.

I’m dangerous too!

Of course you are, Haraldr. But firstly, there’s the infamous Slyrdion hound. What do you do when you hear a rattling noise?

Walk away, walk quietly and walk quickly.

That’s right! And don’t think I didn’t catch you rolling your eyes at me, my Prince. They may sound ridiculous but these sayings are there for a reason.

I have a question!

Yes, Haraldr.

What about Uzza?

Hey! I told you not to talk about that.

Uzza, hmm. I’m afraid there have yet to be any sightings of the mysterious giant but that doesn’t mean it’s not out there somewhere. There’s still much we don’t know about this new world we live in.

Soranth is scared of Uzza. Like a baby.

I’m not scared! I told you, it was just a story Mother told me when I was younger!

Then why were you shaking so much when you told us about it then, huh?

I was not—that’s it, you’re dead!

ARRRGH, he’s biting me! Help, sister, he—

Haaaah. That’s it, lesson’s over.