Rise of the Dead Prince (2 page)

1
The Three Princes

M
eier awoke with a start. He was damp with an uncomfortable perspiration. Throwing his sheets aside in disgust, he moved to pull off his bed shirt. He paused when the shirt had reached his shoulders, and then with a sigh, he reversed the act and pulled it back down over his chest. He hated being naked more than he hated being
hot.

It was early. The glow of dawn shone through his north-facing window like a swelling tide. Meier estimated that it was three hours before his normal waking time. He turned to face his pillow then yawned widely. He weighed the options. He could return to sleep or try to, or he could start to face the day. Either prospect was unpleasant. The warmth of the indentation in his mattress repulsed him, and so he rolled once over, but there was no other perch to be found on his bed. He wanted nothing more than to be both cool and unconscious simultaneo
usly.

With a grunt of antipathy, Meier swung his legs violently over the side of the bed, dragging the still lingering sheets onto the floor as he did so. His bare feet touched the cool stone of the floor, and immediately he felt better. The perspiration died down, and he suddenly found himself stretching. With another sigh and yawn, he reluctantly resolved to get up and get dressed. As the thought sunk in, his mind turned to the reason for all of this discomfort. He had been dreaming. Every detail had been swept away; but when he pressed his mind, he was able to come up with an image or two, colored with a general sense of foreboding. It was not overly unusual, yet the fact remained that whatever it was had woke him up. With a snort of frustration, Meier dismissed the whole thing and began the arduous fight to put his pant
s on.

After a series of yawns that seemed to plague him every few seconds, Meier was finally dressed. He crossed the room and stood before the mirror. With a pale hand, he pulled the dark hair from his eyes and swept it back across his overlarge forehead. He moved close to the image and examined the bags under his violet eyes. He had turned eighteen years the month before, and already he was feeling the weight of what they called “adult
hood.”

“I look terrible,” he muttered candidly to the reflection. A moment later, his chagrin faded, and he tiredly sniggered at the comment. Another yawn fought its way up, but this one Meier forced down with a deep breath. They had become nearly as bad as the hiccups. One more wide stretch had Meier ready to depart. In a gesture of mock gusto, he clapped loudly. The report bounced off the walls of his stone chamber loudly enough to make him w
ince.

“That was stupid,” he said listlessly and then found his way out into the w
orld.

Most of the castle was awake at this hour. Despite this, there was a certain “new” feel to it in Meier’s mind, coupled with a sort of eager anticipation that caused him to move forward quietly for fear that he would break the spell and turn it back into the mun
dane.

All of his fatigue had passed by the time he came to the hall that overlooked the kitchens. The cooks and their many assistants were hurriedly making breakfast. The ovens were blazing. Two young women were cutting melons and crafting the pieces artistically, while one young man pulled a tray of hot bread from the fire and fanned it.
Breakfast,
thought Meier. He never ate breakfast. Well, almost never. There were times when his mother insisted, but even then, this was all new. He had never watched people make breakfast be
fore.

Stealthy as a shadow, Meier escaped notice as he slunk across the narrow balcony to the next hall. Once there, he smiled at his own childishness. It had become a sort of game. If anyone noticed him, he would have to greet them or talk to them, and then he would have to become a part of this day, and it was hours too early for that. Yes, he would sneak about from here to there, always escaping notice like a shadow, deftly clinging to the unseen areas of this busy world. That was the game. And Meier was usually bad at games.
Well not today,
he told himself with a
grin.

Naturally, this resolution preceded the end of the game by only a few sec
onds.

“Good morning, my lord!” exclaimed the clarion voice of the woman that had appeared behind him. Meier nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to face his assailant, this assassin of his fun, this
…
rosy-faced, middle-aged woman that clearly had not even a rude bone in her body. She tilted her head at him and started to take notice of how flushed he was. “Did I startle you, my lord?” she asked apologetic
ally.

Yes! Yes you did!
screamed Meier in his head, but what actually came out was a sigh followed by a dry, “No, of course not. Good morning to you as well.” The woman, whose name he didn’t know, seemed pleased. She waited for a second, holding her basket of bed linens and smiling at the young prince. After another second, Meier realized he was squarely in her way. He shuffled to one side and let her pass. “Sorry about that.” He chuckled nervo
usly.

“Of course not, my dear,” said the woman, and then she was gone. His game now ruined, Meier frowned in sullen defeat. He crossed his arms for a moment and then resolved to go to the courtyard, in other words, where the
people
were. From where he stood, it was a fairly short walk to the south wing and then into the courtyard; but Meier, being who he was, took a wrong turn and ended up somewhere in the east wing by the outer wall. After a period of cheerless wandering, he eventually found a main hallway and followed it to where he needed to go. He was greeted by at least a dozen people on the way, all of them the early morning cheerful
sort.

At last Meier stepped from the darkness of the last archway and into the light and open air. The sun had only crept a hand’s breadth into the sky, but it was still blinding when compared with the torch-lit inner areas. Squinting, Meier stumbled around until he found the steep stairs that led to the upper level. He wanted to get above things and see what he could see. The guards hailed him and went back to their duties, although in these times their duties allowed for a liberal amount of conversation with one another. Meier took the first two stairs with a gallant leap forward, or so he imagined it, but his heart skipped suddenly when he nearly missed the mark and tripped. The loud stomp he made while catching himself caused the two nearest men to turn and look, but Meier quickly scampered away gracelessly to escape the need to return their stares. The two guards smiled and shook their heads, mentally exchanging the same three words with each other,
That’s our M
eier.

Meier was out of breath by the time he had fled to the top of the inner battlement. The cool air burned in his lungs as he rasped. Once he had recovered from the climb, he made his way to the edge that overlooked the whole of the courtyard. The main gate was visible in the south wall, with all its comings and goings. The stables, which he now stood directly above, were alive with the sounds of horses. But Meier had no interest in these at present. His eyes were fixed on the training grounds, specifically on the most imposing figure t
here.

And there he was, Prince Assur the Bold, heir to the throne of Valahia and Meier’s oldest brother. Seven years his elder and covered in thick broad muscle, he stood a full head above Meier. Assur was presently surrounded by sparring partners. One or two at a time, they tried to take him down. Dressed in full plate minus the helmet, Assur wielded a huge battle axe, twirling it across his fingers as though it were a flute. He crouched like a jungle cat and waited for his assailants to exploit an opening. This they did, but one after the other, Assur sent them back on their heels or backsides. It went on for over a minute before three men managed to tackle him in a rush. The rest, laughing, piled on, disarming Assur and pulling him down at last. A giant roar ripped the air as Assur fought to his feet again, carrying one man in full armor under his right arm as he did. The big man was laughing as well and, once the pile had cleared, gave the order to return to drills. Meier couldn’t help but smile. It was all he could do to refrain from clapping as Assur had emerged from the dog pile. Assur and he were undeniably as different as night and day, but it didn’t change the fact that the big man was one of the few people that Meier loved de
eply.

Assur was, despite his bestial appearance, uncommonly kind and gentle. It was true that he could cow men with a glare if he was so inclined, but had never once done this to Meier, not even as a child. His eyes were light brown, matching his skin, and he wore his dark hair cropped close to his scalp. His handsome face and ingenuous smile were the stuff of local legend, and the people across the land couldn’t have been more pleased with the idea of him as the future
king.

Meier made his way along the wall to the outer rampart. From there one could see the greater part of the capital city of Targov, and it presently suited Meier’s fancy to do so. He exchanged greetings with the men on the wall as he passed them, always managing to sound more pleasant than he actually felt. Meier waited until he was above the main gate to take in the vista. There was a semicircular prominence that jutted outward from the main line of the wall there, and it made for the best place to view as much of the panorama as possible. Carefully inching to the edge, Meier leaned forward until the edges of his vision no longer included the castle walls. A cool breeze whipped past his high perch, and the young prince found himself smiling as he gazed down on the waking city b
elow.

Targov was a simple place. It was not overly wealthy or advanced in its architecture. In many ways, it was nothing like a capital city at all. The only thing majestic about Targov was the castle itself, so much so that the grand structure harshly dwarfed the already humble buildings that surrounded it. It was a disparity that Meier took a moment to note, but not ponder on overmuch. If there was one word that he could use to describe the people of this, his home city, it was
pragmatic.
They had no need to build aesthetically pleasing edifices without there being an essential function in doing so, and so they di
dn’t.

Meier was snapped out of his daydreaming by the sound of a silver horn blowing a long note. Below he found the source in the form of several riders making their way down the main road to the castle gate at a leisurely pace. Meier smiled again once he recognized the lead rider, a lean man in ring mail with a red sash hanging from his waist. It was Prince Ian the Hunter, the second son of King Wold and Queen Mira of Valahia and Meier’s other older bro
ther.

Ian the Hunter was tall and lightly built. Born two years after Assur, he was also blessed with good looks and charisma, much like his elder brother. His skin was lighter than Assur’s, and his eyes were a deep blue, like his mother’s. Despite being younger than Assur, Ian’s face was more weathered. His gaze was sharp, and his eyes were often narrowed. Unlike the eldest prince, Ian kept his brown hair long and tied into a tail that trailed down his back. The young girls of Targov who were not already in love with Assur were in love with Ian ins
tead.

As the procession made its way to the gate, Meier shook his head, still smiling. Ian’s morning hunt had brought home two large stags and something like ten pheasants. As the poles holding the limp stags came into view, Meier could see that each had been felled by a single arrow above the foreleg, perfect shots to the heart. Of course, the odder sight would have been to see that Ian had
not
been perfect in his
aim.

A thought came to Meier’s mind regarding his second brother’s personality. Ian was truly a master hunter, yet despite his peerless skill, he never took pleasure in the hunt. He had an eccentric belief on the subject that had rooted itself deeply into the core of his own personal philosophy. He would track, hunt, and kill the beasts of the forest; but queerly enough, he also thought of himself as one of them. No one fully understood this but Ian. He would take meat and hides from the forest, but he loathed the idea of hunting for “sport.” He ate what he killed and he shared it, but he did it all in his own peculiar way. He never brought back does or yearlings, and he never took trop
hies.

Meier’s smile faded as the procession passed from his view. He turned his face to the sun, and as his eyes grew upward from its path, he saw how blue the sky had be
come.

And so it
was.

These were three princes in the land of Valahia, the sons of King Wold and Queen
Mira.

Two were considered national heroes, and one was hardly considered. Assur could bend steel rods around his neck, snap axe handles across his knee, and perform many other such feats of strength that pleased crowds. At least these were the stories people told. Exaggerations though they were, they were not so very far from the t
ruth.

As for Ian, he was known for his amazing skills at archery, acrobatics, and swordsmanship. Where Assur was strong, Ian was quick and dexterous. Ian was able to hit a bulls-eye at one hundred paces, walk across a tight rope, and defeat any enemy within three strokes of his twin swords. These legends were even closer to
true.

Assur and Ian were very close and often sat with the king in the council chamber, ever learning more and more about matters of state and economics. They also sat beside their father in his war room, and there they learned the art of strategy and the tenuous balance of politics with Valahia’s neighboring countries. They were both quick to learn and generally considered to be quite clever. The two brothers were the very models of princes and all that entailed. If they had been the only royal sons born, then the kingdom would have been more than pleased, for these two were clear proof of the worthiness of the line of kings. But they were not the only sons
born.