Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He turned his head to the left, and saw a small clearing. In the center of a circle of trees he saw a stag, standing stock still, staring straight at him. There was something strong, wise, and gentle about deer, and he loved to watch them. But there was something different about this stag.
Ellis froze, and time seemed to slow down. Suddenly it seemed that there was no sunlight, no breeze, no job to do, not even any Kit. There was just Ellis and the stag. Ellis cocked his head, not able to tear his eyes away. There was an oddness—not just about the moment, but about the stag itself—that he did not immediately grasp. Then he realized that the shape of its head was wrong—the antlers were only whole on one side. On the other, it looked as if they had been cut, or perhaps broken off in battle. He had heard that stags sometimes fought over their mates, locking horns in their efforts to best their rivals.
The stag seemed to be looking straight into Ellis’ soul. It seemed to want something from him, but Ellis could not guess what it might be. Ellis’ hands began to sweat. He wiped them on his trousers, but did not look away. Then, suddenly, the stag jerked back and bounded away into the dark shadows of the forest. Ellis’ heart leaped to see the beauty of his movement, and just as fast felt the loss of the animal’s absence and the magic of the moment.
“Yo, Ellis!” Kit’s voice broke through his reverie. “Do I have to drag you to your swivin’ route?”
Ealon Summerfield raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the battlefield. For as far as his eye could see, men and dwarfs were locked in close fighting. Swords flashed, axes swung, horses reared and screamed, and the ground beneath their feet was black and slick with blood.
“I should be down there,” he said aloud, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of his sword. “My place is down there.”
Rear General Lord Sunhaven’s bushy eyebrows raised. “I am surprised to hear it, Lord. Better that you are here, though. You may find yourself commanding battles one day, and knowing how armies move and react to orders will be a boon to you. Besides,” he lowered his voice, “a man commands better if he is alive…if you take my meaning, sir.”
Ealon turned his head away from the carnage to fix Sunhaven with a sour scowl. “You think I’m a coward.”
“I think no such thing. I think you are a prince, and that your life is worth more than battle-fodder.”
“And yet my brother—the king’s heir—is down there.”
“Aye, Lord.” The old man turned his gaze to the battle. “Against my counsel.”
“Yet you do not allow me to join the fray.”
“I am charged—by your brother and by the king—to defend you.”
“You are not a nursemaid. I don’t need you to mind me.”
“No, Lord.”
Ealon sneered at Sunhaven’s agreement, stated too quickly and with a hint of condescension. Ealon hated being patronized. In truth, he had no desire to be in the thick of battle. His skill with a sword was small, but his pride was a ravenous beast that needed constant feeding. What he truly hated was being told what to do, especially by his father or brother.
He had been groomed to rule in the event something happened to his brother Cormoran, an opportunity he knew may never come. Although, he thought as his eyes scoured the battlefield looking for his brother, one can always hope. But he found him, near the Summerfield standard rippling defiantly in the wind—a brilliant, semi-circular sun brooding over a dark plain. Cormoran was on his feet, sword swinging, bringing down foemen on every side with confident dispatch.
Ealon made a sour face and looked away. Their enemy today was Wybrook, residing to the northeast and sharing the coastline—and a petty kingdom which refused to bend the knee and pay tribute to the high king. They had bollocks, he had to give them that. But they did not have the numbers, nor the cannons, nor the dwarfs on their side—and there were no fiercer enemies than dwarfs in the grip of bloodlust.
He was growing bored of watching the fighting, just as he was bored by one petty insurgency after another, and by politics altogether. He loved the idea of power, he loved to make men jump when he commanded them, but the minutia of ruling made him want to stab out his eyes. He thanked the oyarsu that such tedium fell to Cormoran and his father. It left him free to…
He felt a moment of vertigo. What did he do with his time? There seemed so little of it, but if he were honest, he would have to admit that he spent most of it playing nice at court, stumbling in his cups, hilt-deep in a whore, and seething over his brother. But he hated being honest, and he pushed the thought away.
He wished there was a way to best his brother. Cormoran had always been their father’s favorite. It was Cormoran who got the attention, Cormoran who had been trained first in battle, Cormoran who had been schooled first in his letters and in diplomacy. The reasonable part of his brain pointed out that this must be so, since Cormoran was four years his senior, but such protests mattered not at all to the petty worm of his heart. Cormoran was born first, and Ealon hated him for it.
His eyes were drawn to color, and across the battlefield he noted the enemy general’s camp, much like their own, perched at the top of the hillock just on the other side of the shallow valley. The hillock gave the enemy high ground to command from, just as their own camp had done. The hills descended into an extended valley to the right, but to the left there was a rim, a ridge that led through several stands of trees right around to his own camp.
Ealon cocked his head. He looked around at their own camp, counted the number of men. Not many…he thought. A plan began to form in his mind.
“Cormoran and the lords are holding their own,” Sunhaven pointed out, “but we’re taking heavy losses along our flank.”
“Um…pardon me a moment, Lord Sunhaven. I need to find a stand of trees. ‘Wine is only ever a visitor,’ as they say.”
“Yes, of course, my lord. There is a latrine behind the camp.”
“I hate the latrine.” His nostrils flared. “The smell offends me.”
Sunhaven moved his head back and forth, accepting this answer. Ealon could tell he did not approve and probably thought the prince was being insufferably delicate, but he was wise enough not to say it.
Ealon gave the battle one last glance before turning and heading for the trees.
Cormoran jumped back to avoid the follow-through of a dwarfish ax. “Sorry, my lord,” Orfek Gravelhorn called over his shoulder.
Cormoran could hardly hold it against him. The dwarf had felled even more of the enemy than Cormoran himself had. There were few soldiers Cormoran could trust at his back, few who could match him, but Gravelhorn was one—even if his swing did go a bit wide at times.
Cormoran took advantage of the moment to get his bearings. Looking around, mindful of any who might approach him, he pushed the visor of his helmet up and wiped the sweat from his chin on his silver gauntlet. He squinted at the sun’s brightness, now no longer dimmed by his visor, and it seemed to him incongruously bright and cheery given the tragedy and blood seeping into his greaves.
He turned and chanced a glance at the general’s camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother—his troublesome brother whom he had promised father to keep safe. Cormoran felt a moment of panic when he did not see him. Sunhaven was there, Cormoran would recognize the man’s large, stocky frame anywhere—but where was Ealon?