The Unclean River

The rain fell for the third day, threatening to overflow the banks of the river and wash away a piece of the encampment. Broderick mulled the thought while taking another puff of the oak pipe that protruded from his lips. He stood watch at the far end of the camp, a lone guardian between the riverbank and the lives of men.

The camps had stood along the river since the end of the war, the last lines of defense from a reptilian invasion into the heartlands of the Osterian kingdom. These fortified bastions were dotted along the rivers eastern banks, like buttons on the shirt of the world. The fighting had faltered many winter ago, but brave men were still a much needed currency along the river, the border between men and beast.

Although the sun hung high somewhere in the sky, she was held in check by bothersome clouds and a stubborn bout of rain that was close to a fourth consecutive day. Like any day at a militia camp, it was dreary, dull and without flavor. The rain sought only to make everything soaking wet.

The chink-chink of a man moving about in armor caused Broderick to swiftly swivel his head to locate its source. Within moments the plate mail encased form of Jerald appeared, plumed helmet tucked under one arm and broadsword swinging at his hip.

"All's well, man?" He called, not bothering to stop. Broderick felt the question was posed to the wellbeing of his section on the river, not at him directly.

"'Course, sir. All's quiet." He feigned a smile and held his gaze on the knight until his armor-clad form had vanished into the torrential downpour.

The Osterian Knights had been in disservice for so long they had largely been disbanded. They existed mostly on parchment, with jaunty and well off nobility purchasing a seat at the king's table and the right to defend the riverfront for a chance at a glory that no longer existed.

For the militiamen that served on the river garrisons, life was taxing; they were often forced on long, wearisome marches and spent most of their time fixing defenses for an attack that most were certain would never come.

Broderick turned back and leaned against the railing of the solitary watchtower. It was raised only three feet off the ground, just enough to peer past the bent and gnarled trees that hung on the riverbank to see the opposite bank.

The rain seemed without end, as if the Gods had decided to flood the world to try their hand at it once again. Broderick turned from his thoughts and peered through the veil of rain to the far bank. The trees rustled and every so often a man would shout that he had seen one of them pop from the tree line only to disappear just as quickly. These false alarms were always taken to heart and all available men at arms were called to prepare for battle. Broderick had been called up many times from his cot, or during the evening meal, but on watch he himself had never seen one of the scaled beasts lurking in the shade of the trees.

Broderick watched the river and smoked what left was in his pipe until another guardsman came to relieve him for the night watch. Sleep came easy for him, in thanks to the pitter-patter of the rain against the thatched roof of the barracks.

There was shouting, and men were moving toward the door. He awoke and as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thought he had awaken during some kind of attack. Men leapt, jumped and hobbled from their cots and Broderick scrambled to grab his sword and follow them out of the building.

He soon realized, standing amidst the gathered crowd outside the barracks that they were not under attack. Instead the men had rushed from their beds at the arrival of Prince Drake, Son of King Harold and future heir to the throne of Osteria.

He stood on a raised platform, surrounded by a quartet of men in armor much fancier than that of the local commander Jerald. His embellished lavender cloak, while wet, still fit his broad shoulders with remarkable ease. He carried himself with a natural grace that Broderick had never seen in person, and his voice was the very sound of imagined royalty.

"Men of the Militia," he called, an arm raised high to acknowledge the throng of men assembled. "I have come to you under grave circumstances."

"He's an oaf, he is," someone muttered. Broderick peered about. Sounded like Mathers, or maybe Reynault.

"They say it's his first time outside the Golden City," another voice crowed, this time behind Broderick. Someone cracked a joke and was met with jeers and laughs.

"For the first time in many winters, the scaled beastlings have ventured across the river and raided the village of Koraholt." Prince Drake's eyes burned with a fire that the men of the riverbank lacked, his plate mail gleamed even in the somber grey of the still rainy morning.

A few rows up, a man chortled. "And you goin' to lead the counter attack, my lord?"

Unabashed, Prince Drake gazed into the crowd in the direction of the loud mouthed militiaman and offered a decisive nod. "I am."

Neither King Harold nor his son, who few outside of the inner circle of the Golden City had ever seen, were very popular amongst the common folk. They had hesitated when the men of scales and claws came clambering over the riverside and nearly swept the kingdom into ruin. Men fought and died in their own villages without so much as a hand raised from the Osterian Army, which had been ordered to defend the capital at all costs.

Broderick knew of the village of Koraholt. It had served as a bastion of commerce and trade until the war started; the villages close proximity to the river proved to be both its life giver and executioner when the lizardmen invaded. This had not been the first time he had heard of it being raided, it was within a stone's throw of the riverbank and was often undermanned because of its location so far to the north, away from the kingdom's interior.

Atop the platform, Drake paced back and forth with resurgent strides. "I have come to you, brothers of Osteria, for you will find your place in history on this day! We will launch a raid into the scaled one's heartland in retaliation for their defilement of our lands!"

"What's it got to do with us," someone in the crowd retorted. Men had been killed for saying nicer things to a Prince in the Golden City, but the riverbank was far from home.

The Prince cleared his throat and extended an arm toward the river. "Half of this garrison will march with the Osterian Army as a vanguard! We will march on the beastlings and slay all who oppose us and destroy one of their villages in exchange for their raid on Koraholt!"

Men booed, grumbled. Some cheered, their blades held high. There were those who signed up for the militia because it paid twenty coppers a month and offered three meals a day. Some joined so that they might one day meet the lizardmen in battle; others still so they could defend their homes and loved ones.

Broderick's stomach growled and he was immediately reminded why he had joined the militia. The Prince turned from the jeering crowd and disappeared off the platform as Broderick similarly disappeared into the mess hall.

"Awake! All of you!"

The heated cry of Jerald roused the entire barracks, and within moments, the men were assembling in the center of the room, three dozen in all. Broderick stood amongst them, his black tunic emblazoned with the golden prongs of the Osterian crown across the right breast. The men carried an assortment of weapons: short swords, hand axes, and morning stars. Shields and bucklers were a luxury that the men of the militia could not afford.

A knight stood beside Jerald, a clear head taller than him with skin of bronze and long hair of onyx. Jerald whispered something to him and he nodded approvingly.

"Norren Harveth, step forward." The knight spoke, his voice a booming proclamation.

Among the crowd men stirred, until the man Norren was discovered and perused to the front by his compatriots. A lanky man, he was balding with a sharp nose and eyes that seemed too close together. He stood half a head taller than the rest, but a natural hunch removed any advantage of height.

Jerald looked over at the knight, and he whispered something to him a second time.

This time, the Knight's voice rang even louder. "Broderick Logas, step forward."

Broderick immediately felt a hand slap him on the shoulder. He felt the color leave his face, and he cleared his throat. A few men in front of him parted to allow him passage and he maneuvered his way to the front to stand next to Norren, who managed to look over at Broderick with a meek smile.

"Norren Harveth and Broderick Logas," the knight affirmed, acknowledging the two men who stood before him. Broderick felt as if he were about to receive a death sentence. "You have both been selected by your watch commander to lead the militia vanguard."

Broderick felt Norren give an appreciative sigh and slightly straighten his posture. The knight swiftly turned and exited the barracks, his heavy footfalls echoing well past the doorway.

"Two men strong of character and swift of hand," Jerald exclaimed, approaching Broderick and Norren. "Prince Drake requested two men be appointed to command the garrison," he added, but his words could not contain his pending smile. "He has requested I accompany him personally in his honor guard. I know you will both serve honorably."

Satisfied, Jerald reached down, placed a hand on the hilt of his long sword, and straightened his chin. "Assemble the men along the far bank and prepare the rafts. For the King!"

The room, Broderick included, shouted back. "For the King!"

Broderick felt bemused by the time Jerald slipped out the barracks door. Norren tapped him lightly on the shoulder and grinned a toothy smile.

"The Prince's vanguard, eh?" Norren beamed. Broderick thought this was probably the most attention Norren had received since birth.

"Let's keep our head on straight. We've a job to do," Broderick huffed. "How many men do we have?"

Norren straightened his shoulders, the message well received. "Three barracks with fifty men each."

"Rally the other two barracks and I'll see you down at the river. We'll start moving men across the river immediately."

Broderick turned and assessed the men before Norren had fully disappeared through the doorway. They were a ragtag bunch, vastly different in age, size and even equipment. Their training, as Broderick was familiar with, was second rate at best and their equipment were antiques, some even brought from home. Their one unifying gesture was the similarity of their uniforms; they wore the black tunics with an emblazoned golden crown across the right breast.

They weren't fit for fighting, Broderick thought. He wasn't fit for fighting. Not against them, the scaled ones. They were vile, vicious and unaware of human ideas like mercy, compassion or retreat. They stood a head taller than the tallest man, their bones supplanted in thick, sinewy muscle sheathed in dense scales that ranged from the brown of autumn to the white of Osterian snow.

Broderick lead the troop out of the barracks and down the hill to the riverside crossing point. The river itself was wide and flowed with a subtle grace. Had it not been for the looming watchtowers, poised like ominous statues in the distance, and the hustle of armored men running about, the river itself would be quite serene.

"Quickly," Broderick called to the assembled troops. "There are four rafts, twelve men a piece or six on horseback. When you reach the opposite side, clear away lest the area become too crowded!"

The men mulled about for a moment, shifted, and then began stepping onto the rafts. They were connected via rope, the pulleys attached to wooden stakes in the ground on both sides of the river. When a raft was loaded, the men pulled themselves along the rope until they safely reached the other side. The current was not willfully strong, but without these ropes and pulleys, landing any number of troops at the same spot on the opposite bank would be nearly impossible.

Broderick watched intently as the first rafts were cast off. The embarked soldiers reached the far side and crawled out of the rafts and on the near side men began to crank the pulleys to bring the rafts back toward the camp.

The marching and shouting of men was heard from a long ways off, and Broderick turned to see Norren at the head of a host of militia meandering toward him.

"All's accounted for," Norren mumbled as he approached Broderick. "'Cept for three men, all ill."

"And the Prince?"

"Saw him up at the hill with the Black Army," Norren pointed back up the hill. "Jerald and the knights too."

Broderick turned his attention back to the loading and unloading of troops on either shore. Norren took to the task of leading the remainder of the militiamen down to form lines at the bank as the rafts came back.

Over half of the militia had safely reached the other side when the trumpet sang. Long and spectacular, the instrument and its owner must have ridden with the Prince because no common man had the coin to purchase such a device. Broderick and the others turned to face the sound, and were not disappointed with the approaching sight.

The host of men galloped down the hill, the billowing lavender cloak of Prince Drake near the front was flanked by armored knights and followed by similarly dressed men on foot. They seemed an unending stream of tooting horns, flowing black, gold banners and shining armor.

"The Osterian Army," Norren muttered. Broderick didn't need reminding. They had the ill repute of being Kingsmen, loyalists to the families of royalty and wealth, with no genuine sense of honor or love of country. They showed up after the local garrisons had finished fighting and dying to wave and prance around as false victors.

Broderick retrieved his pipe from the satchel at his side and plucked it between his lips. "They'll get to watch us fight and die up close, eh?"

"Then take all the spoils right after," Norren added.

"They're coming, Norren. Hush."

The equestrian beneath Prince Drake slowed to a trot, and the fair-faced Prince waved a greeting to the two men assembled near the river. He peered around at the ongoing operation, but it was apparent his eyes were untrained in the intricacies of military logistics.

"Your commander has informed me you two will lead the militia alongside the army into the Harshlands," the Prince asked.

"Aye m'lord," Norren was quick to answer. Broderick clenched down on the wooden pipe as the Prince's gaze turned to him.

"You bring a great honor to your King, men. We must bring the army across the river before nightfall, so that we might make camp and begin our attack in the morning."

"S'not possible in a day, sire. We've too many troops and it's too dangerous to navigate the waters at night for fear of attack or ambush."

The Prince's horse swayed, and the man seated atop, for all his regal attire and pronounced demeanor seemed at a loss of words. "What say you?" He asked, his eyes turned to press upon Broderick.

"He is right, my Prince," Broderick plucked the pipe from his lips so as not to fumble across any words. "I would recommend the army camping here tonight, while the militia prepares for your arrival across the bank."

The Prince turned his attention down river, and Broderick briefly followed his gaze, fearful something awful had been spotted. There was nothing. The Prince had merely averted his gaze, apparently beaten by the reality of the situation.

"Well then," Drake announced, turning his horse back toward camp. "We shall make camp for the night then." He kicked the horse into a gallop and rode back up the hill. The army, its commanders signaling, turned and disappeared back at the top of the hill.

"Why in the hell did they bring him all the way from the Golden City," Norren muttered, turning back toward the rafts. A third group was nearly across now.

"What glory is there in an Osterian victory if the Osterians aren't there to see it, Norren?" Broderick chortled.

"Can you imagine trudging through the jungle with those knights, their armor clinking and clanking about? We'll be ripe for an ambush, we will!"

A man-at-arms approached just long enough to alert Broderick that the third group had reached the other side and the rafts were being prepared for the fourth group. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun grew sleepy and the day had grown decidedly darker.

"What makes you think you'll be standing amongst the knights? You'll be wading through mud and muck while they smoke and drink in camp, at your expense!" Broderick realized he had not lit his pipe and was merely chewing on its end so he returned it to his bag.

The men of the militia had finished their trip across the river, along with what little food from the mess hall they could muster. Norren and Broderick, along with a few others took the final raft across before they were tied down. Fires were started, tents were raised and a perimeter guard was established. The hand of Osteria had few times reached across the river, and as he lay in his cot, Broderick took in the sounds of the Harshlands. Birds chirped, the crickets sang and somewhere in the distance a sharp howl, too wicked to belong to any animal, echoed in the darkness.

"Broderick," someone muttered, a hand shaking abruptly at his face. It was Norren. While easily frightened, the look across his thin countenance suggested something catastrophic.

"What is it," Broderick asked, slipping his boots on and hobbling after Norren out of his tent.

Norren pointed and Broderick couldn't believe his eyes. While the raft and pulley system was by no means complicated, they were certain rules to be abided to avoid mishaps. The most significant of these rules was not to overload the rafts with an excess of weight; men were one thing, but it was important to consider other things, like the weight difference between a man in a leather jerkin versus a man in a suit of plate mail.

Two of three rafts had just departed, and as they were pushed from the bank, they dipped low in the water, lower than Broderick had ever seen them. Prince Drake sat atop his steed, surrounded by a half dozen guards, some brandishing the gold and black specked Osterian banner. They were all clad in silvery plates of armor. The second raft was the same, minus the flowery Prince, but this time with eight armored soldiers.

"Two pence says he ends up in the river," one of the gathered men at arms announced, crossing his arms.

"You're on," another retorted.

Broderick pushed through the gathered crowd and stopped just short of the bank, the water nipping at his boots. "Go back! You must go back!" The river, wide as it was did not allow for verbal communication so easily. Broderick waved, and Norren appeared next to him and replicated his gestures.

The rafts continued unabated, and as they passed the center point, Broderick thought for a moment that dangerous as it was, they might make the trip. He remained unmoving at the very edge of the river, hoping to warn the Prince of the impending dangers as soon as he could.

The first raft closed in, and beneath him the Prince's horse shifted nervously. The raft bobbled to and fro in the waters as the rope creaked along the pulleys.

Broderick wanted to say something, anything. The rope groaned, and a few feet away the pulley it ran through started to shudder. Something knocked. Hard. For the briefest of seconds Broderick thought he saw scales emerge from the water, but before he could blink there was a splash. A trio of splashes followed and the raft, weighed too heavily on one side began to capsize. The rope snapped and all hell broke loose.

"Men," Broderick shouted, loosening his belt and wading out into the water. "We must save the Prince, they'll be dragged to the bottom!"

Men followed suit, throwing weapons and cumbersome bits of clothing to the wayside as they rushed into the river. The raft, free from the ropes had already started drifting free and left the Prince and his armored compatriots to flounder alone.

The Prince's armor was largely ceremonial, and he was hindered mostly by the constrictive efforts of his cloak, which he began to remove the second he hit the water. His honor guard however were nowhere to be seen, and the men of the militia were already diving down to grab them before they sank into the watery abyss.

Broderick reached the flailing Prince first, reached down into the water and unbuckled his belt. The weight of his huge broadsword fell away immediately, and now unburdened the Prince began to properly swim back to shore.

"You," Drake screamed, trudging back into the water as Broderick reached close enough to shore to finally stand. "You and your foolhardy machines nearly killed me and my men."

"My lord, it was not –" Broderick didn't get to finish.

Drake reached down at his side, as if to unsheathe his sword, the same sword that nearly dragged him to the bottom of the river. "Silence! I will not hear your excuses."

Broderick began to speak when the soaking wet glove of the Prince crashed against his cheek. Chest heaving and totally drenched, the Prince glared, as if waiting for Broderick to make the same mistake twice.

The militiamen had begun to return from the water, and no knights accompanied them. The second raft neared the bank and the knights disembarked when Broderick realized suddenly that Drake's authority on this side of the river, with the Osterian army largely stuck on the other side, was much less. Drake noticed too.

"Now go, before I decide to punish you further."

"This is madness, my liege."

The assembly of men that stood before the Prince had grown in the morning hours. Among them was Commander of the Garrison, Jerald, as well as Broderick and Norren. Prince Drake had gathered the three men into his grand tent to instruct them in the plan of battle, and Jerald spoke even before the Prince had finished.

"And are you yourself learned in the merits of strategy, sir Jerald?" The Prince asked, his lips pulled taut.

"I am not, my Prince."

"Indeed, you are not. Yet you question my plans." The Prince snatched the map from the table even as the eyes of Broderick and Norren still fought to take in the complexity of what was drawn upon it. "You may go, sir Jerald. Your presence will no longer be required amongst my honor guard. You shall command the rearguard here at camp."

Jerald was too incensed to speak, and Broderick avoided his wide-eyed gaze.

The Prince turned to stare the man down. "Must I have you removed from my tent, sir Jerald?"

The white haired knight turned and stomped out of the tent, which left the tent in a flux of silence. Jerald was a man worth his salt. He had indeed purchased his right to wear the noble armor of a knight, and he had earned his keep fighting the beastlings in the war. Broderick realized he was one of the only men he still knew who had ever faced off against them.

Broderick sensed Jerald's plight regarding the Prince's plans. He had intended to have the militia scout ahead, finding the beastling camp and attacking it to draw the lizard host to them. When the enemy host came forward, the militia would withdraw to allow the heavier knights to engage the scaled ones and destroy them entirely. Foolhardy. Suicidal.

"You two," the Prince called. "Prepare your militia. We move out immediately."

Broderick hurried out of the tent under the gaze of the Prince, but couldn't shake the thoughts from his head. He wondered, as Norren followed behind him, if he thought the same.

The stench of death and war hung heavy in the air. Broderick stirred and the croak of wagon wheels rattled in his ears. Somewhere behind him, men groaned. He fought to move, but his every joint ached and burned, so he remained still.

He opened his eyes and saw the canopy moving above him. No, it wasn't moving, he was. He turned his head, his neck stiff and unresponsive. His eyes went wide, his worst fears realized.

Broderick thought back, fighting to remember the images before he fell into blackness. The men had been ordered by Prince Drake to act as a scouting force, to reconnoiter the area and find the best route of attack against the heathen villages. He remembered seeing the enemy host prepared for battle, countless thousands of them assembled in their war paint. He remembered the frantic run back to the supply train. He didn't remember anything beyond that.

The wagon came to an abrupt stop and Broderick instantly felt the clammy grasp of claws around him. They were being unloaded and carried to the camp's edge. Broderick's face hit the dirt and he remained unmoving, his eyes affording him just enough to see that one of the vile beastlings stood just off to one side, waiting for one of the prisoners to make a mistake.

The wagons kept coming and men were unloaded like cattle. Most of them, Broderick began to notice, were fair faced knights, their armor and weapons absent. Had they surrendered so easily?

Broderick afforded himself a position on his knees, something that the spear wielding guard did not seem to mind, though his beady, deep set eyes were glued to Broderick the entire time. Broderick did not return the lizardman's harsh glance.

The scaled one's made sure to unload the most prestige prisoner last. A pair of beastlings, their knifelike fingers stuck firmly into each shoulder blade, dragged the crown prince from the wagon and across the dirt to his men. They threw him down and cackled, a sound that stole the color from Broderick's cheeks.

The men sat for a long while at the edge of the small beastling village, a sordid collection of huts that would've made the poorest Osterian scoff. The Prince remained unmoving, his face still down in the dirt and Broderick began to realize that he may be dead, killed in the ambush that had seen them all captured.

Long after the sun had dropped behind the horizon of ancient trees, Drake stirred then coughed. The men behind Broderick gasped and scooted closer, whispering and mumbling to themselves. The guard's long snout turned up and he half raised his spear as if expecting a revolt.

The Prince turned his head up and Broderick turned away, his eyes shut tight. They had beaten the son of Osteria, his eye sockets were black holes, his right cheek inflated and purple. His lips were cracked and dry with blood that had long run its course. He had begun to stand, but his left knee buckled inwards and he hit the dirt floor with a thump.

Broderick pressed himself from the ground and instantly felt the eyes of the guard on him. He approached the Prince and for the first time counted several other pairs of glowing eyes suspended in the darkness, as if waiting for him to move too fast, too suspiciously.

He knelt down, pulled one of the Prince's arms around his shoulders, and walked him back toward the group, where the Prince sank to the ground like a deflated balloon. His breaths were light, but labored and Broderick felt sick just to think of the punishment the man had endured.

A long while had passed, and Broderick counted the stars in silence until finally the Prince swallowed hard and mumbled something.

"My Prince?" Broderick asked, sitting forward on his haunches.

"Happened... Knights of..."

"They were waiting for us," Broderick said. "We didn't have much of a chance."

Someone in the group tapped Broderick and handed him a water skin, which Broderick pressed to the Prince's lips. He moved to help the Prince sit up.

"How did they know of our coming?" The Prince asked. Broderick realized that several of the Prince's teeth had been knocked out.

"There are a great many things we do not understand of the scaled ones, my liege."

"What is our fate now?"

Broderick swallowed hard. Neither the Osterians nor the beastlings had very much use for prisoners on their side of the river.

"The scaled ones will sacrifice us to their Gods when the sun rises."

Drake looked down, as if resigned to his fate.

"I would ask something of you, Broderick. A quandary I don't much understand."

"Indeed, my lord."

"In camp," the Prince added. "The men spoke of feeding the unclean river. Why do they call it so?"

Broderick half smiled. "During the war, when the Osterians would wage a great campaign in the Harshlands, they would signal their victories to the watchmen on the riverbank by dumping the bodies of the scaled ones into the river. They would float its length, and all the men on the riverbank would see we had won a great victory."

"I have not heard of this."

"When we suffered a great defeat at the Battle of the Caralla, the scaled one's dumped the bodies of the fallen men into the river, and we have not done it since."

Drake coughed, then started to say something when there was a great rustling in the trees. All eyes turned to the south, and Broderick noticed movement amongst the huts of the beastlings. Lizardmen rushed past, spears and axes in hand, disappearing into the foliage.

There was screaming, inhumane shrieks and somewhere amongst the trees, Broderick heard the neigh of a horse. He looked up and realized the amount of guards around the group had tripled, and remained unmoving.

The tree line quivered and figures emerged, their pink flesh covered in bulky armor plates. The first among them was Jerald, the Commander of the Watch. One of the guards charged him, and his great broadsword cut the beast down with a violent thud. The second and third guards were brought down in similar fashion.

"Back to the river! There are too many!" The white haired Jerald shouted, his sword raised. A pair of slithering reptiles emerged from the darkness and assailed Jerald, who fought them off with labored and heavy swings.

A man on horseback appeared from the trees and a moment later was brought down from a beastling who appeared just as quickly. The campsite erupted into chaos, but the number of scaled one's was climbing as they emerged from their huts and even from the trees around them.

"Come, my Prince," Broderick shouted, helping him to his feet. Jerald appeared by his side, his sword coated in the black blood of the defiled ones.

"We must flee to the river bank, lest we be overrun!" Jerald barely had time to finish before he turned and engaged another reptile, this one armed only with his claws.

Broderick led the Prince through the trees, the clash of men and reptile echoing around them. Men grouped around them and several of Jerald's party formed the rearguard as they made their way back towards the river.

The group ran hard through the trees, but Broderick felt it a futile effort. The scaled one's pressed in from all directions, they grabbed the men who lagged behind and leapt at stragglers through the dense foliage. They would not make it back to the river alive.

They jogged through the dense foliage and stopped in a small clearing, Drake pushing Broderick away from him. "I can go no further."

"We must, or we will perish! We cannot stop, my lord! They will surely catch us!" Broderick noticed that several of the men who had taken up the rearguard was missing. He feared the worst.

Drake turned and yanked the sword out of one of the men's hands. He placed a hand across Broderick's shoulder. "I am not fit to be your Prince."

"My lord!"

"Nor am I fit to lead such brave and strong men. Go," he added, readjusting his grip on the sword. "I will find honor here, and buy you time to reach the river."

Broderick remained still, uncertain.

"I said go!"

Broderick and the others continued on, leaving the Crown Prince of Osteria in the small clearing, the trees rustling all around him.

The next days were for recovery, for mourning. A great many men had been lost in the ambush across the river, but greater still was the loss of Prince Drake. His loss was mostly political, as few amongst the camp cared much for the man, but few knew what sacrifice he had made.

Broderick returned to his post along the river the next day, his job of spotting a potential counter attack was of great importance. He smoked diligently on his pipe, his eyes cast across the horizon to the unmoving tree line.

"There! There!"

The cry made Broderick instantly reach for his sword. The counter attack had come.

Men rushed to the riverbank prepared for a great battle, but they had been fooled just as he. The men pointed, but it was not at the tree line.

A single form floated down the river, his face scarred but serene. His once immaculate cloak was tattered, intentionally mangled by the scaled ones. All men watched and none spoke.

The enemy had claimed a great victory by feeding the river with the kingdom's heir to the throne, but Broderick knew better.

Broderick knew their Prince had found his honor, and the kingdom found their Prince.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Taylor is a writer and novelist who is known for his articles on the importance of wellness and health on Thought Catalog as well as motivational and entrepreneurial work at Addicted2Success. If he's not writing, check the gym. His debut novel, ROGUE COSMOS dropped July 1st, 2015. His last Aphelion appearance was The Fastest Gun in the Veil in our March 2015 issue.

E-mail: Theo Taylor

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