Rise of the Dead Prince (11 page)

17
The Trial and the Arrow

T
hree weeks after Ian forbade Meier to venture south, and one week after Trent and Dor had set out on their fateful self-assigned mission, the dead were still trickling out of the woodwork, as though something had designed that they should travel in a constant stream, ever harrying the living. The attacks on humans had tripled, and the migration had become more erratic. Instead of heading ever south, they often detoured to wander through major cities. The army had their hands full to say the least, and they would have been unable to protect even the major cities if it were not for the volunteer militias that had sprouted up across the
land.

It was unsafe to go anywhere. There was an increasing concern that the food would soon run out, for the farmers could not safely return to their lands until the threat had passed. The people of Valahia were effectively beleaguered on all sides. Despite the warnings from Ian that all people should make their way to the largest cities, some villagers stubbornly held on to their homes, refusing to give in to the threat. These were often of the older generation, which ironically were the most susceptible to the attacks. Many losses were reported, and those who went out to investigate often did not re
turn.

It was in these days of despair and hopelessness that Ian became a light shining in the darkness. Despite the terrible occurrences, he still had the love and trust of the people. In itself, this was no small task. The people knew that he would fight for them and that he would not rest until his country was safe. He slept four hours a night at most, often passing out only when he could bear the fatigue no longer. Stories of his dedication spread across the land. If anyone could save them, it was Ian. He was the last bastion of their
hope.

However, he was not alone. Always behind him was Meier, now known as the Dead Prince. Sadly, he was greeted with mistrust and fear because of his condition, and this much was entirely understandable. But things soon got ugly. And they got uglier. As Meier took to the streets one day, there was a particular incident that brought the simmer to a
boil.

Meier rode Callista down the broad main road through Targov and as he did so was hailed by two middle-aged men that had been volunteers under his command. He knew their faces but not their names. Naturally, he stopped to talk with
them.

“Do you know me, sir?” asked the first man. The men wore the curved swords of the Gunars, undoubtedly taken from the fallen of the battle for Targov. Meier smiled down at him in a friendly
way.

“You marched with us to Aram, did you not? I do not know your name though.” The man exchanged glances with his friend. Something was odd about the way they were beha
ving.

“I am Errol,” the man said, “and this is Dego.” The men both nodded. Quite unexpectedly, Callista snorted and took a step
back.

“Easy, girl,” said Meier with embarrassment. But not more than a second after he said it, an arrow flew straight and true into his chest! An assassin! The force and shock of the arrow nearly knocked him from the saddle. It had nearly passed through him altoge
ther.

“Guards!” yelled Meier. “We are under attack!” Errol and Dego drew their sw
ords.

“How dare you wear his skin!” yelled E
rrol.

“How dare you take his memories!” yelled Dego. Meier was reeling from shock still, and the arrow still protruded from the left side of his c
hest.

“What are you talking about?” yelled Meier over the panic that had erupted in the st
reet.

“Don’t play dumb, demon!” screamed Errol, “Our beloved Meier is dead!” Another arrow whistled through the air, barely missing Meier and planting itself into the wood of the house behind
him.

“Imposter!” yelled the archer on the roof, jumping down to get a better
shot.

“
Strigoi!
” yelled
Dego.

Strigoi
was the term that had recently been given to the walking dead. In the old folklore, the
strigoi
were evil spirits that rose from the grave. And they were yelling it at him. It hurt more than the a
rrow.

Errol and Dego charged with their foreign swords raised. Meier pulled on the reins to turn Callista, but she was one step ahead of him. Before they could reach him, he had turned, and Callista took off like a bolt. The men pursued him through the crowded street, all the while screaming that he was not the true Meier to all who would listen. For fear of trampling some poor citizen, Meier was forced to slow Callista to a slow trot, though she kept trying to run. At that pace, the men would have intercepted him, had it not been for the arrival of the guards. These men appeared and quickly saw the situation for what it was. They surrounded Meier defensively. Errol, Dego, and the rooftop archer saw the guards and began to hesitate. It became clear that they had not intended to harm anyone other than Meier or, as they believed, the creature pretending to be Meier. Once surrounded, they dropped their weapons and gave themselves up. The guards rushed to Meier’s side, asking if he was all right. He told them he was fine and that he had not been hurt. Just how or why he had not been hurt was a complete mys
tery.

The three would-be assassins were led away to the jail, where they would wait for trial. And chances were it would be a very swift trial indeed. Meier did not know what to make of the attack. He dismounted and started to walk Callista back to the castle. A small contingent of men escorted him at a short distance. He tried to tell them it was all right, but he was lying and they knew it. His life, or whatever it was now, had nearly been taken. Or had it? Looking down, he realized the arrow was still in his chest. It did not hurt. In his dazed condition, he had forgotten all about it, inescapably evident though it was. Such was the impact on Meier’s psyche. The attack had left him spinning in shock, but more poignantly in grief. With a single long tug he pulled the arrow free. That part hurt. It had also hurt when he was initially shot, although not nearly as much as one would expect. Reluctant to toss it aside in the street, he clumsily tucked the arrow under his arm like a riding crop and started to amble down the street in a disconcerted way, looking on each side nervously. He found that his hands were sha
king.

Everywhere he looked, he saw faces of mixed emotion. How many of them believed he was a demon? Was he more like the
strigoi
than he was living men? It was a question for which he had no answer. All he knew in that moment was a feeling of profound sadness. As he walked along in an aimless way toward the castle, he was hailed yet again. This time, it was a little voice. A young girl walked up to him and pulled on his tunic. Given the recent attack, it startled Meier so much that he nearly jumped out of his
skin.

“Prince Meier, sir?” asked the girl. She could have been no older than eight. Meier put his woes aside momentarily and knelt beside her. He felt something of a nervous hope, and though his heart ached fiercely, it was not in him to simply ignore her
call.

“Yes, little one?” he asked as coolly as he could manage. He knelt to face her then closed his eyes, trying for a moment to shake free of the images of assassins and their hate-filled faces. The girl took a deep breath then scrutinized him in the way that only a child could. She seemed to understand what had happened, at least on some small level. She had, like everyone else, heard the cries of the men; and while many had wished they could approach Meier in those moments after, it was only a child that dared to. Her tone was both questioning and sympath
etic.

“Does it hurt to be dead?” she asked innocently. His eyes grew wide. It was not what he had expected, but such was the unpredictability of children. Meier felt a strong pang, but it melted when he looked at her pretty little
face.

“Not really, no. But it is a bit
…
,” he began to say, but trailed off momenta
rily.

“Lonely?” she finished the sentence for him. The word struck him like another arrow. She could not have spoken truer. Meier cast his eyes downward. His heart felt like it was about to over
flow.

“Yes, little one. It is lonely. Or
…
it is now.” Meier found that he was sniffling lightly, despite his struggle against it. The little girl put her arm on the prince in a very grown-up
way.

“My daddy says you saved his
life
,” she said, almost cheerfully. She was trying to comfort him. Even the guards that surrounded him seemed moved. Meier was at a loss for words. “When I grow up,
I’m
going to fight
strigoi
just like my daddy,” she said earnestly, smiling. Meier found himself laughing weakly as she flexed her arm at him. Suddenly, the girl’s mother appeared from the crowd and began to collect her. She was all bows and apologies, but Meier would have none of it. Before he could thank the girl or the mother, they disappeared into the crowd again, leaving Meier where he had been before, lost in a sea of f
aces.

The trial of the assassins was swiftly brought to court. In this case, it would be the king himself who passed judgment. The trial was merely a formality, however. For attacking the prince, there could be only one punishment. It was one that had not been passed down in over one hundred years. Crimes of violence were so rare in Valahia that people were often so shocked when one happened that it was difficult to know how to deal with it. When Ian heard of the attack, he was outraged, as any protective older brother would be. Meier spent the night in quiet contemplation, reflecting on the bittersweet images of the
day.

The next day, the three men were brought before the king in chains. He asked them one single question. It was the only question on the minds of anyone who was present for the proceed
ings.

“Why did you do this terrible thing?” he asked them. The two other men looked to Errol, who was all too eager to be h
eard.

“Because you have all been tricked, sire,” he responded. Ian scoffed but then managed to delve into the an
swer.

“How have we been tricked? You are the ones who attacked the nation’s last prince!” Errol turned to the crowd, and with his shackled hands, he ple
aded.

“When the prince died, I died inside! And I am not alone! We grieve and we mourn the passing of Prince Meier, and we swore vengeance on the vile pretender that has fooled you all!” Errol exclaimed above the din. Ian slammed his fist down on the arm of his th
rone.

“Enough!” he yelled, and all went silent. “There is no more need for talking. Your prince is dead, yes, but he is returned to us by magic of a mysterious and elusive kind. It is not your place to cast judgment and call him a pretender. I am the king, and I know my brother! I have no choice but to sentence you to the most severe and unchangeable of punishments. You are all guilty of treason, and you will die a traitor’s d
eath.”

“No, they will not. At least not today, brother,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. Meier threw back his long hood and walked through the stunned crowd. All was suddenly hushed. Ian stood up in a
nger.

“Judgment is passed by the king, Meier,” said Ian. Meier made his way to the front, and there he stood beside the acc
used.

“They will not be killed, because I, Prince Meier, as the aggrieved party, hold them blameless.” The court exploded with various whispers and recriminations. How could he pardon them? Was it true what the assassins had said? Meier turned to the three
men.

“You men have some family left, yes?” he asked them. They all nodded, clearly bemused. “Then see to them,” he said simply then turned to face the front. “Will you not release them, brother?” Meier asked. Ian looked shocked but then sat down with a heavy sigh. He had not looked forward to an execution, but to let them go free? Imposs
ible.

“At least they should be banished, Meier. They put an arrow in your chest!” said Ian. The three men knelt in their chains, looking around in all direct
ions.

“Another sentence of death? No, Ian, they are correct. I have no way to prove myself to them, so I will not try.” Meier walked to the man who had shot him and bent over. He produced the arrow that had pierced his chest. What he said was quiet, but not so quiet that it could not be heard by Ian. “What is your name, sir?” he asked the archer. The man looked to the others then back to M
eier.

“Flynn,” he answered. Meier extended the arrow to him. “This is yours, Flynn. I hope you will accept it. The arrow you gave me, I now return to you. We are even.” The man looked up and into the purple eyes of Meier and accepted the arrow. He merely nodded. His eyes were filling with tears. He had never felt so sorry for anything in his life. Errol and Dego looked on in bewildered scrutiny. Meier seemed to be winning them over. Still, could this not be a trick? They were uncertain. Ian broke the sil
ence.

“Meier, please listen. I cannot allow men such as these, men who would resort to violence so easily, to stay in these lands. I will not be moved. The decision is not yours to make, little brother.” Meier nodded in resigna
tion.

“Then you will not have them in the same country as me then? Misguided though they might have been, it takes courage to do what one believes is right, full well knowing the consequences. Is that your final word, King Ian, my beloved brother?” Ian sighed again and no
dded.

“Yes, Meier. That is my final word.” Meier turned to face the three men a
gain.

“So be it,” he said to them all, a look of pain on his face. His lips curled into a wry smile. He turned to face Ian once again. In a loud voice, Meier addressed them
all.