Blade of Champions

Chapter Eleven: The Prince

        CHAPTER ELEVEN

        THE PRINCE

  Hughell fell to his knees before the Lord of all Arrethtrae,  overwhelmed. All that he was and all that he would be, lay open before this one man.

'My Prince,' he said, 'I deserve to die. I have fought against you. Endangered your followers. Killed one of your knights. If you would have my life, it is yours.'

He bent, unable to look into the Prince's eyes, surrendering his neck to the judgement that would surely follow.

'Hughell,' said the Prince, 'I would have you follow Me.'

The gentleness in the voice shook Hughell to the core. He looked up slowly, hardly daring to believe.

'Hughell.' Again, his name. The Prince's hand was stretched out towards him. 

'When I hung from that tree, I submitted Myself to the plan of Lucius so that My followers would not have to. When My Father gave Me back My life, I was given power to do the same, for whoever would come to Me as you have done. Regardless of their crime. Will you follow Me?'

Tears ran down Hughell's face. 'I will - to the end of my life!'

He reached up and the hand gripped his, stronger than any hand he had felt.

'Then rise, Sir Hughell, Knight of the Prince.'

All at once the strong arms were around his shoulders, embracing him like a brother, like the father he had never known. So sudden, so unexpected was the gesture that Hughell could scarcely accept it.

Then the Prince laughed, His eyes alight with joy.

'Let us go!'

So Sir Hughell’s journey - and his training - began.

The line the Prince led him in was rarely a straight one. At times they travelled north or east, at others they rode in a completely opposite direction. Hughell woke each morning not knowing what the day would hold, knowing only that the Prince would be with him.

As they travelled, Hughell's eyes were opened to parts of the Kingdom he had never dreamed of seeing. He felt his throat go dry as he stood on the very edge of the Red Canyon and learned of the courage it took one man to lead an entire people where they did not wish to go, in pursuit of a King none of them would recognise.

His ears rung with the screaming of thousands, where knights battled for glory in grand tournaments of Cameria.

He saw the city of Chessington, nestled in the heart of the beautiful Chessington valley, fading in ignorance of the King’s heart.

Most of all, he felt the pain and sorrow in the Prince's eyes as He looked upon the people that had rejected Him and saw them suffering under the heavy hand of His enemy.

Every morning and night, the Prince trained him in everything; from running to hunting, from lighting fires to climbing trees and moving unseen through his surroundings.

Above anything else, the day's training would start and end with the sword.

Hughell was a seasoned fighter. His reflexes were sharp, his movements instinctive and this proved to be part of the problem. The only real training he had ever received was from the other alley boys, whose primary tactics involved dropping the blade and getting your hands around your enemy’s neck at the first opportunity. Keeping hold of a weapon was more than a lesson for Hughell – it was a complete redoing of everything he knew about fighting.

'The Sword is your best weapon against the Shadow Warriors. Your only weapon,' the Prince told him. 'Trust in my sword and it will not fail you. Lose it and you are vulnerable to the attacks of Lucius.'

At first, they sparred only with sticks. In spite of the Prince's warning, Hughell managed to drop his right in the heat of combat. And not just once, but over and over again.

Once, Hughell watched sadly as his stick flew from his hands, then he sank down onto his heels. 'I don't think I can do this,' he said.

The Prince merely waited for him to pick the stick up and began all over again.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Hughell began to improve. He learned to hang on.

The day came when the Prince handed him a real sword instead of stick.

Still the training went on. Weeks? Months? He did not know.

What he did know was that his body was stronger, his reflexes quicker and his mind more alert than they had ever been before – and that he owed it all to the Prince.

The satisfaction of learning was incredible, but sometimes he caught himself wondering how he would fare in a real fight. He had nobody but his Master to compare himself to, and of course the Prince would always be his better.

One morning, Hughell woke before the dawn and rolled over to stare into the ashes of the fire. The smell of rain was on the wind, cool and vibrating with life. He sniffed, wondering if it were really spring again. If that were true, his time in training had spanned the better part of a year.

Hughell lifted his head, searching for the Prince, and soon spotted Him coming across the hillside, head bowed as though deep in thought. 

The Prince drew near and bent to stir the fire with a broken stick. A flame burst to life in scattered coals. He straightened. 

'Come.’

Hughell leapt to his feet and followed.

The Prince led him back across the hill and through a small coppice of pines. In the centre of the trees there was a clearing and here Prince came to a stop. 

Hughell’s keen eyes scanned the open space, taking everything in.

Wherever he looked, piles of blackened stones lay scattered on the barren earth. A post-and-rail fence had one stood around the place, it had been torn down and strewn about. Behind the ruined building stood the remains of a well, blocked to the top with rocks and debris. As Hughell surveyed the scene, a feeling of desolation crept over him.

'Do you remember the boy you carried, the boy on the way to Cytra?' the Prince asked.

'I do,' said Hughell, 'and I think I will not soon forget him, though I did not know his name.'

The Prince bent and picked up one of the stones, rubbing away the soot.

'His parents were loyal to Me. They died here, defending him from Lucius's slavers.' 

His turned to face Hughell. 'Ever the dark lord seeks to further his kingdom, using the blood and strength of My own people.'

Hughell looked into the Prince's eyes. Suddenly all the pain and grief, all the wrath he saw in them became his own.

The Prince gripped his shoulder. 'You are ready, Hughell. Now is the time. Your mission lies before you.'

He drew forth a long, narrow package, bound tightly in sheepskin.

Hughell took it wonderingly and unwrapped the covering.

Inside lay a sword; ancient and powerful. The leather grip was scarred and stained, worn by time and use. The blade itself, however, shone like new; not the smallest nick or blemish marred the flawless edge. On the battered black cross-guard glowed the seal of the Prince, deep and red as blood.

'This is My blade,' said the Prince, 'and the blade of he who carries My burden for justice. Few who are called dare to accept it, and those who have born it before you have carried it to the furthest corners of the kingdom. Unto pain - yes, even unto death. This is the Blade of Champions, Hughell, and it is yours, if you are willing.'

Hughell ran his fingertip along the edge and flinched, staring as a line of blood appeared in his skin. The blade was sharper than cut glass, infinitely more lethal.

 He looked up. 'I am.'