Two men stood over a map of a desert, wondering what their next move might be. They were tasked with the transportation of the Prince, a very wealthy and self-entitled man; he was actually little more than a boy.
“When will we be moving?”, the Prince asked. “I’m tiring of this constant monotony, this endless desert.”
The first man looked up from the map. His name was Francis Argol. Francis was a general in the King’s army. He had more important things to do than take care of a child, but his King commanded him, so he obeyed. He let a long breath slide out between his lips before he answered. “Apologies, your Majesty. We sent a group of three riders a half-day’s ride ahead of us. Only one returned and brought news of a large group of raiders and thieves.” At the sound of this, the man at the General’s right spit on the ground.
“Cowards and bastards, thinking themselves warriors. We should have been within a few leagues of the Castle by now!”
He was one of the King’s Barons. He advised the King on matters of the country and was part of his Army. This particular man, Keren Festrell, was one of the lower Barons; his lack of likability didn’t work in his favor. He also wasn’t one to mince words. He enjoyed acting in haste and leaving enough daylight to drink mead until he could no longer think straight.
“Now, now Festrell. We have a half-decent group of men. Granted my father won’t exactly be missing any of you.” The Prince’s eyes lingered on the Baron as he spoke. With a smirk he added, “Maybe, under the command of the two of you, we may only lose half our men.”
With that he strode out of the tent, his long purple robe dragging in the dusty and cracked desert ground.
“Relax now, Keren,” said Francis. “No need to get angry over this. We’ll get him home and be rid of him.”
Francis wasn’t very fond of Keren, but he was a man of arms, which to the general, was greater than someone like the Prince, someone who’s never had to work a day in his life, or pick up a sword to protect his soil, or even a plow to feed his family. With a few words muttered beneath their breath, they returned to the map in front of them.
It was no secret to the Prince that Argol and Festrell held him in disdain. Their faces showed their anger at him; words pushed between clenched teeth and knuckles white, from tightly clenched fists. It didn’t bother him, though. He enjoyed the fact that he could bother them to such an extent without lifting a finger. If they spoke back to him, they’d be flayed and stripped of their honors. They’d never dare try him.
The Prince strode into his tent. It sat behind the command tent where the General and Baron decided their next move. Like the command tent, it was white, wicking away the desert’s dreadful heat. He longed for the stone walls of his father’s castle, for servants to respond to his every command. He wasn’t made for hard travel.
He sat on the hard wooden bench and looked around him. To his left, crumpled on the ground, was his armor. It was hardly ever used; it was more of a formality really. It had been made by the castle smith, gold and silver, inlaid with precious stones. It could have easily been more valuable than the lives of some of the men out on the field. The Prince didn’t care. Neither about it nor for it. He wasn’t to fight. No, others were to fight on his behalf as he sat and watched from a safe distance. After all, he was royalty.
On his right there was a pitcher of water and a small clay goblet. The water was covered by a thin layer of dust, just like everything else: his robe, his shoes, even the inside of his throat. He poured himself a cup and momentarily quenched his thirst. The rest of the tent was empty, but he was still more comfortable than every man in his party.
The Prince looked up as General Argol entered with the Baron and another unknown soldier who looked ready to faint.
The General spoke first, his tone wary. “Your majesty. Our sentry stationed a mile north of camp claims to have seen a force one thousand strong,” he said, gesturing to the man beside him.
Slouching in his chair, the Prince looked at the man with utter disdain and spat out to the three of them, “Well? Do something about it, you fools! Why do you think my father sent you?”
Through three sets of clenched teeth came whispers of “Yes, your majesty,” and “Of course, your majesty,” as they hurried to leave the small tent, with hearts full of hate.
The Prince wasn’t worried. He was protected by 250 of the best men his father’s Kingdom could offer. Yes, they were severely outnumbered, but his soldiers were trained and disciplined while the force facing them were more likely to be brutish and wild.
As nightfall overcame the camp, followed by a somber sunrise, General Argoll and Baron Festrell racked their minds for a scenario where they could be victorious. They each shelled out ideas for hours, scrapped for one reason or another, and by the time the sun was shining brightly above them, they agreed on a plan. Festrell was fuming by this time. “We’ve spent all night and this is what we’ve come up with? We’ll be lucky if ten of us get out alive!”
The general knew he had to tread carefully. The baron was tired and angry at the Prince. “Our job was to transport the Prince safely to the Castle. If that means we may have to give our lives for it, so be it. The rules of chivalry-“
“Don’t speak about that degenerate and about chivalry. Don’t give me rules of honor or respect,” said Keren, interrupting his brother in arms. “When that boy shows an ounce of respect to another man, I’ll think about returning it. But for know he can shove it up his arse.”
“Keren! You may not like him but he is our Prince so you will at least refrain from speaking ill of him.” Francis knew what the problem was. Keren was a man with a lust for life and he viewed his life as the most important thing, but Francis knew that sometimes, you had to make sacrifices. “Now get some rest. Our guards say the force will meet us tomorrow.”