The Prince

Damien II: Chapter 3

Chapter 3





“Damien!  What in God’s name happened to you?”





“Erich!  You’ve got to help me.”  Shivering, Damien lurched through the crowded tavern to where the lieutenant and seven or eight other guards were taking their ease at a corner table.





The second miracle in as many seconds, Damien had sailed over the top of the Tower’s western gate only to land in a snow bank beside the road.  Deep, the snow had broken his fall and saved his life but left him with a number of bruises.  His body aching, it had taken him several minutes to extricate himself from its powdery confines.  Those men who’d been chasing him trapped behind the now broken portcullis, they had yelled threats and curses at him from behind its iron bars as he had slowly climbed to his feet.





Now, wet and feeling every one of his bruises, Damien stumbled to a halt beside his father’s old friends.  All of them remarking on his battered state, they made a place for him and one called for a fresh ale that was presently placed before him.  Nodding gratefully to the man, Damien lifted the mug and drank deeply.  His hand shaking, he carefully lowered the mug back to the table and collapsed into his seat.





Recognizing a hand on his back, Damien turned to find Erich staring at him.  “The Marshal, it was the Marshal,” Damien gasped.  Looking around at the gathered men, seeing them lean closer, their eyes widening, he swallowed and shook his head.  “I, I have to escape.  He took my letter and-and opened it, tried to read it.  Said my father might have been a…a…”





“Been a what?” asked a man across the table.  Damien was having a hard time remembering his name, any of their names.  Had he hurt his head in the fall?  Might he have a concussion?  Everything was just happening so fast.





“Been a…” Damien repeated.  Taking another drink of his ale, he finally managed to get it out.  “A traitor.”





The table exploded.  “A WHAT?!” they all shouted in unison.  For a moment the tavern went still, every man there turning round to stare at their table.  His father’s friends staring at Damien, they took no notice of the rest of the tavern but simply launched into cursing and shouting whatever else came to mind.  That Theirn Bynae might have been a traitor, it was tantamount to blasphemy to them.





Others watching them for a moment, the rest of the tavern slowly went back to its business.  Turning to Erich, Damien grabbed at the arm of the man who was swearing, cursing the name of Caisone René.  “Erich, Erich,” he said, “you’ve got to help me.  The Marshal’s coming.  I’ve got to get out of here.”





“Damien, I—”





“The back.  Where’s the back?”





“Uh, there, at the end of the bar.”





Rising, Damien found himself nearly unable to stand.  “Help me,” he said to Erich.  The man taking him by the shoulders, he pushed Damien before him through the crowd.  Reaching the door to the backroom and kitchen they waited while a barmaid passed through with a tray heaped high with steaming food.  The smell intoxicating, Damien turned to follow it.  The entrance coming into his view, he watched as the door opened and in walked Count Mersán, a dozen men with drawn swords fanning out around him.  Most of them young and nameless, there was one amongst the Marshal’s men that Damien recognized.  It was Maël Virnaer, the king’s Quartermaster and the man he had formerly been apprenticed to.





Erich’s hands on his shoulders turning him towards the back, the door was closing on the bar a moment later.  Stumbling down a short hallway, past the noisy, sweet smelling kitchen where a number of men and women labored to prepare orders, they quickly found their way to the tavern’s rear door.  Going through it, Damien was surprised at how cold the air was.  A small alley filled with crates and barrels, a layer of snow covered everything.





“Alright, this is as far as I go,” said Erich behind him.





Damien turned around.  “What?”





The lieutenant shook his head.  “I’ve got to go back.  The men, they’ll be missing me and,” he took a breath.  “And with the Marshal there...I don’t know what’ll happen.”





“Then don’t be a part of it,” Damien replied.  “Please Erich, just get me out of here.  Off of Millers’ Road, out of Green Bows.  See me to the Meridian at least.  Please, I’ll make it home from there.  I promise.”





“Damien, I don’t—”





“Ple-ease.”





Erich sighed.  “There’ll be questions.”





“There always are.”





Lifting his eyes to the gray sky, Erich shook his head.  “God help me.  Go, I’ll be right behind you, covering your tracks.”





“Thank you Erich.”