CROWNS I: Of Desolate Hope | ✔

10. The Black Prince

The Black Prince rode at a leisurely pace on the worn path emerging from the side of the white mountain. He and his knights had been riding for well over a week but they had finally arrived. The sky was a strange grey and the streets empty. The air was foul and eerie. The sudden cawing of a murder of bloodcrows escaping a lonely willow tree riled the horses but they were soon comforted by the gentle whispers of their riders. Nyis was more of a ghostly wasteland than a country and so he knew that the population would be minute in comparison to the other nations he had ventured into.

A shutter closed loudly, awakening suspicion in the Black Prince and his knights. The small town appeared empty yet something still stirred in the abandoned place. The knights dismounted and kicked open the rotting doors of every house, inn and shop that had one to break.

"There are people in here," said the Grey Hand, his silver cloak differentiating him from the rest of the riders. He dragged out a small boy and a girl, both covered in soot and blood, "Children."

The rest of the riders did the same, bringing out the children from each building. One by one the children were brought to the Black Prince.

"Was I really gone for that long?" he said, trotting toward the group of children being formed in front of him. He dismounted the black stallion. "Where are the adults?" he asked, "Where are your parents?" His voice was calm and gentle but also youthful.

There was no answer.

"When did they go?" asked the Grey Hand, "What have you been eating and drinking?"

The children continued to stare at the hooded figures most of whom were clad in the night, their faces concealed by the shadow that fell over them during the sunrise.

"We eat what I catch," came a reply, "Man or beast. I'm impartial."

A woman dressed in brown and grey rags sprung from behind the roof of an old tavern, landing behind the Black Prince. Her brunette hair was surprisingly well-kept and her voice somewhat refined. The knights drew their dark blades.

"She-wolf. Why did you not attack us before? You've been following us for days," said the Grey Hand, drawing closer to the woman, his sword nearing her throat. "We first spotted you prowling around a cottage in the Wakewood. Wouldn't trying to kill us in our sleep have been wiser?"

"I wasn't hungry! It had not taken me," she snarled, her nails subtly extending.

The Black Prince spun around so violently that even the woman became uneasy. "If you so much as lay a finger on me," he said, knocking her hands down, "I'll run you through and leave your carcass to the crows. Or I'll skin you and make you into a rug...I'm impartial."

The Grey Hand then whistled and his horse, Silver, anxiously approached. From the saddlebag, he brought out a huge animal leg. "Broadback Elk from Jados." He threw it at the queer woman. "Now let's talk," he said lowering his blade, "Where is everyone?"

The woman pounced on the leg like a starved wild animal. "I didn't kill them, you know," she answered, sinking her claw-like nails into it, "I had nothing to do with it. He took them. They were rounded up and taken to Stormhill." She stood up, inquisitively. "Tell me. Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no concern to you." replied the Black Prince, dismissively, "Why have you not killed and eaten the children yet?"

The woman seemed to frown, though it was hard to tell. "Should I?" she screamed, maniacally, "We're not that different and we're not all bad...well, we weren't all bad. You people wouldn't kill them, neither would I."

The Black Prince slowly took off his hood, revealing his face only to her. "How long have they been gone?" he asked.

Four fingers were held up. "Weeks," she added, "I'm not sure what they aim to achieve but they have a camp north of Stormhill, near the river. It's not just this town by the way."

"Let's go." commanded the Black Prince, mounting his white destrier once he was hooded again, "Our mission remains unchanged. We avoid travelling too far north. Will you follow us this time, she-wolf? You reek of hatred."

The woman grunted, turned around and began to walk the way the riders had entered the town. Once she had reached the arch she turned for a brief moment, "No. I have my forest to protect," she said, entering the mountain, "You are different from the rest of them. I doubt this will be our last encounter, now I know your face."

Once again, the Black Prince and the knights rode. Out of the eerie town they cantered, their gazes set on the great hill that lay below in the distance. Even from where they were, the hill still looked rather large and had a little brown dot on the top. On horseback, they could just about see the snaking form of a river between the ridges far away. The group travelled rapidly across the lonely lands and after a long while began to spot a few villages and even this camp that the woman had mentioned toward the north.

"The foul stench of death," stated the Grey Hand, pointing southwards at Horrag Prison which looked like a small but wide twig from upon the plateau. "Even from here, you can smell it."

The group changed course and deviated towards the east slightly as to avoid any chance they might be spotted, blazing a path through the plateau's peculiar lilac grass. Single file they carefully and painfully slowly descended a crumbling path for what seemed like forever and continued on the same level as the hill which began to sinisterly loom over them. The grey thunderclouds that once seemed so far off were now above them. Flashes of lightning illuminated the few dead trees in front of them in what must have been remnants of an ancient forest. The riders trotted through the Deadwood until they were faced with only the base of the murky-green hill. They could not see past it nor the north or south, only the east.

"Well, there it is," said the Grey Hand, after a journey of mostly silence, even during their short breaks, "Stormhall." Everyone looked up at the brown stronghold on the hilltop.

"Listen," whispered the Black Prince, urgency in his voice.

There was a steady patter echoing from behind the hill, growing in volume.

"What is that?" asked the Grey Hand, hand on his hilt, "Drums maybe."

"Or footsteps," he replied, "Lot's of them."

"It's the sound of marching," said the Grey Hand turning his horse away from the noise. The other riders did the same. "It seems like we were not the only ones with our eyes on Nyss. We have to turn back. Now."

"But where can we go?" asked the Black Prince, worriedly, "The horses are fatiguing and there's nothing around for miles and miles. The camps and missing adults make sense now."

A sudden din arose from behind the hill. The noise was deafening. There were neighs and roars and shouts erupting from beyond. The multitude of footsteps began to make the ground tremble, ever so slightly.

"What in the hell is going on behind there?" asked one of the riders on the left.

The Black Prince turned to him gravely, "It would seem...the Battle for Stormhill has just begun."