The Price of Honor

Chapter One: A Race

With a rhythmic rumble, two galloping horses interrupted the serene silence of the forest as they cut a path through the sparse underbrush, weaving in and out of the patchy light that filtered through the canopy of branches and leaves. The riders, hunched down low, were more like parts of their beasts than their passengers.

The lead horse was a dark yellow stallion with a pattern of black spots that ran from its neck to its tail. The rider smiled with a look of smug determination as he glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was two lengths ahead of his companion.

The other horse was a black mare with red stripes down its belly. The rider leaned forward and whispered encouragement to his mount. He raised his body in the saddle, tightened his grip on the reins, and let out a loud "Hiyaa!" The horse picked up speed and began to close.

They burst into a glade almost simultaneously. Riders and horses alike had to blink from the sudden brightness. The Patriarch, almost menacing in its clarity, was a large blue and green banded orb, visible just above the trees on the horizon lighting the sunless dark blue sky. Straight ahead of them in the clearing were the remains of fallen tree whose shadow once loomed over the glade. The yellow horse veered to avoid it, but the other horse rode to meet the challenge. Its hooves dug into the soft dirt with each stroke as it approached the fallen tree; clumps of grass and dirt flung up by the hooves scattered behind on the trail of deep hoof-prints. The pounding of the galloping horse gave way to a brief silence as the horse jumped up and over the obstacle.

Too late to react, the rider saw a group of small burrows on the far side of the log. He was helpless as he saw the horses' front legs land in a hole and sink deep into the soft earth, snapping with a sickening crunch as it rolled forward. The horse panicked, whinnied in anguish and stumbled. The rider reacted quickly and rolled away, avoiding being crushed by the falling horse.

The other rider, seeing what had happened, rounded the log and stopped his own horse. He quickly rode back to his companion, jumped off his horse and quickly wrapped his reins around a branch.

The fallen rider ran and dropped to his knees beside the horse. He was disheveled and had a few scratches, bruises and had small tears in his brown leather clothing, but was far better off than the thrashing horse. He held down the horse's head as it tried to stand, as if it could get up and run away from the pain.

"You will have to kill the poor beast, Pryce," said the tall youth as he stood behind the kneeling figure. "He has jumped his last."

"This is my fault, Rork. I should not have been so reckless and arrogant, trying so hard to beat you that I risked my horse’s life." The rider spoke as he tried to calm the horse. Its thrashing had weakened, and its breaths became fast and shallow. The eyes had a look of terrified panic that wrenched the rider’s heart.

A few feet away, the other horse shuffled and brayed nervously.

Rork stood beside Pryce and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You mustn't trouble yourself so, Pryce. End his suffering. We have to get back."

Pryce drew his dagger from his belt sheath. "You have been a trusting and faithful steed, Windspear. I will name a colt in your honor." Holding Windspear's head steady with one hand, he quickly made a deep cut across the horse's neck. Bright red blood gushed freely as the horse weakly thrashed, splattering Pryce’s legs with blood; he quickly stood and looked away. His face, youthful and unmarred by age or scars, was torn in a painful expression with his eyes shut tight as he ran his hand through his light brown hair. Clumps of dirt and dried grass fell through his fingers. He pulled his hand away to look at it and saw no blood, but was not comforted. He turned to look back at his horse as its throes weakened, and was surprised to see its eyes looking straight at him. "I'm sorry," he said as Windspear finally died; a tear fell from his eye as the final drop of Windspear's blood trickled to the ground.

"We must be off," Rork said softly as he placed a hand on Pryce's shoulder.

Pryce looked down at his hands, one still holding a bloody dagger.

"We should get back quickly," said Rork.

Pryce nodded and inhaled deeply through his nose. "We have to prepare for the Duke Nagel’s banquet. I have so much to do yet."

"Hm. Sir Kinser has me polishing and cleaning his sword and armor, not to mention learning the names of all the nobles for this banquet. Especially since the envoy from the Kingdom of Cearous will be there." Rork pulled his lanky form onto his horse. "You are fortunate to be Prince Bren's squire."

"Believe me, being the squire of a prince is not any easier. But hopefully," Pryce said as he looked up at Rork, "we will have enough time to enjoy ourselves." He wiped the blood from his dagger on his leggings and returned it to its sheath.

"Perhaps this time you will have the courage to ask Lady Moriza to dance, hm?" Rork smiled slyly, arching an eyebrow.

"It was not lack of courage," replied Pryce defensively. "It was lack of opportunity."

"Of course, Pryce, of course." Rork chuckled. "Anyway, mount up. We have an uncomfortable ride ahead of us, and an explanation to give to the stable master." He offered his hand. “He’ll probably only let you have a preel next time.”

"I was wondering if you were going to offer me a ride or not." Rork helped Pryce behind him, then spurred the horse to a fast trot. As they rode off, Pryce took a last sorrowful look at Windspear's still form.

(((((0)))))

"He has become an obstacle to us both, Your Grace," said the short, broad-shouldered young man. He stood in front of a grand desk, leaning with his hands propped on its edge. His face seemed forcibly serious; an attempt to seem older and more mature, but it poorly hid the disdainful expression it covered. He wore the proud dress of the Cearousian nobility - richly and colorfully woven, mostly in blues and purples. His family crest, a dragon-bird with outstretched wings and the head in profile, emblazoned on his brass ornamental breastplate took up most of his chest.

An older, much larger man, less formally dressed, sat behind the desk. He was unimpressed. "Mind your tongue, Prince Ian. It is my son of whom you speak." He spoke calmly, unnerving the younger man. "He will be the duke one day."

"As will I, in my own kingdom." The youth stood straight, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "That would set back everything you and my father have worked on these past years, almost a lifetime. Peace would be jeopardized." He paused until the Duke motioned him to continue. "He does not even try to hide his contempt of me. Our relations would not continue as they have, or progress. It took the combined wisdom of you and my father to end the Slyth war, and to maintain the peace not only between our dukedoms, but our kingdoms as well. But there will come a time when it won’t be you and my father, but your son, Bren, and I that will have to keep the peace. Without a blood alliance I doubt it will be possible."

The Duke sat silently, his expression grim, as he waited for the youth to continue. He took a deep breath, breathing in the slightly smoky air. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"I am willing to forget the past humiliations that Bren has caused me as I look to the future," said Ian, speaking over the sound of the fire, “our future. Is Bren? I am beseeching you, Duke Nagel. Please grant me the right to marry your daughter." He paused for a reply but got none. “You could compel her.”

The Duke shook his head. "She would not agree to it. She said she would sooner fling herself off the highest balcony." He closed his eyes and covered them a moment. “I will not allow that.”

"That is your son talking!" His voice grew forceful, but he regained his composure before continuing. "When I was first courting your daughter she was amenable, but your son betrayed us both and turned her against me." He took a deep breath, and changed his tone. "A marriage would forever strengthen the ties between our dukedoms, regardless of Bren's feelings toward me. All the work you and my father have done would survive generations past your own. This could be your legacy. Permanent peace." Ian’s frustration with the Duke’s stoic silence was building up, but he calmed himself. "Please, at least grant me a chance to speak with her, alone."

"And if I did?"

"I would convince her that your son is wrong about me, and I am a suitable husband. She barely knows me, and all that she does know, she learned from Bren. He is the only obstacle; he would continue to try to become between us." He paused, then again leaned on the desk and brought his face closer to the duke's. "But you can stop him. You are the duke, his father. It is you," he emphasized, "that is in control." An awkward silence passed between them as the youth straightened. "Forgive my manner, Your Grace. I should not speak to you so, but for the future of both our dukedoms we must take action. Surely we can't let Bren's jealousy and pride jeopardize the peace between our kingdoms?"

"What do you suggest?"

The youth smiled before he continued. "What better time than at the banquet to celebrate another year of peace?"