Thibalt squinted at a stream of movement in the distance. A stallion was racing along the road, apparently riderless. Beautiful creature! It must belong to someone. A dust cloud billowed behind.
Thibalt gestured. “Give me a glass!”
He squinted into the tendered lens. “What?” The horse was a runaway—but someone was holding on!
The frenzied creature was galloping, dragging a body on the ground behind, tied by a whip to the horse’s saddle. Thibalt cringed. If the body were a dead man, it was a cruel way to die. He squinted into the glass again.
“What do you see, sir?” Lieutenant Samson asked at his elbow.
“I’m not quite sure,” Thibalt handed the glass back to his lieutenant and dismounted, gesturing to the cavalry. “Create a barrier! We’ll slow the animal down! Hold your ground!” He whistled and the cavalry assembled across the road, standing two horses deep across the breadth of the road.
The horse drew ever nearer, but seeing the barrier, grunted and blustered in protest, slowing by degrees until at last he drew to an uneasy pause, though he stamped the earth and whinnied in protest.
Thibalt stared in wonder. The bridle was fine, and the saddle bore a royal crest—not from some foreign king, but his Chalbeam homeland. This couldn’t be…?
He strode toward the tense beast, which danced back in retreat. “Whoa, there. Whoa,” Thibalt said. Giving the animal a wide berth, he went around to peer at his burden. Even if the rider were dead, he had to know who—who had attempted and nearly succeeded at such a breathtaking larceny. None had succeeded in mounting the war horse Serge, not since the late King’s passing.
The body was covered with dust. Red streaked the dust behind. The body baggage shuddered.
Alive? Thibalt gestured to his lieutenant. “Take the reigns! Get him under control!”
The stallion reared up and whinnied, dancing to the far side of the road. Thibalt reached for his sword and sundered the leather crop that bound the the body by the wrist to the horse. A throaty gutteral issued from the body as he struggled to rise, though he only managed to hold himself prostrate on his hands and knees.
“Who are you? Declare yourself!” Thibalt commanded.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
The man spat, and dirt and gravel spilled from his mouth. When Thibalt had cut the whip, he saw there was nothing actually tethering the rider, outside of an impossible grip. Why hadn’t he let go of the whip?
The man spat out a final stone, rolled his jaw hinge, coughed then sputtered, “I am Felder—on…of the Chalbeam Crest.”
Thibalt gasped. What? Could he really be? He stared at the man. His face was scarred almost past recognition. But the clothing, though dust-covered and torn, were not wrong for his claims.
“That’s quite a statement. Claiming the identity of the lost prince and rightful heir. Where is your procession? Where are your guards?”
“Eh?” The man muttered. “I assume they’ll catch up…soonish.” He gestured at the road. And indeed, several riders were galloping hard toward them.
Thibalt widened his eyes and went down on one knee. Hedging bets was better than losing a head. Even if this claimant on the throne were an imposter, there could be no better timing.
The ten day window was closing and they needed a hero!
* * *
It was a small procession, for a King, but the six riders were in fact a royal guard, though they seemed as bewildered, almost, as Thibalt himself.
“This is Prince Felderon, the sixth son of the King Emeldor?” Thibalt whispered, gesturing, without being too pointed, toward the man now being doctored in the medic tent.
“Yes, sir. So it seems. He was found only recently, wandering lost in an underground cavern. He was recognized. Moreover, he answers the prince’s description in every particular.”
Thibalt thought better of questioning the royal guard too closely, but he wondered whether the prince had lost his wits wandering around for years below ground. It seemed possible, if not probable, that he was no longer quite all there.
But this madness might work to the good of all. For the moment, they had to problem of a rogue dragon, who answered to no king, and would set against the entire town and army without someone to stand opposite.
“Your arrival is timely,” Thibalt said. “Did you, in the past week, receive word of our present difficulty?”
The head guard nodded once. “Your messenger arrived just before the king was discovered. We were at that moment considering how to answer you. Of course, you understand that there was no fit challenger to be had; we’ve lost so many of our best men, as you know, on the Windswept Plains.”
Thibalt fingered his beard. “Yes, of course.” He glanced wistfully over his shoulder toward the medic tent. “I suppose I’ll just prepare a briefing for the, er—King, then. I’m sure he’ll wish to be brought up to present, after his long wanderings.” He scratched his head. “If I may enquire—how exactly, did he come to be…?”
“He mounted Serge just fine, but then when he opened his mouth to speak a word, it was as though the beast became possessed, bucking and kicking, but his Majesty would not be put off. Then Serge tore off across the countryside. The King kept his seat for a long chase. When Serge finally flung him off, he would not let go of the crop which was apparently tied to the beast’s saddle, though Serge dragged him many miles!”
“Astonishing.” Witless.
“I have seldom seen determination like either one of them, King or beast!”
Thibalt considered. He was determined indeed. But how would the former prince and sixth son fare against a dragon?