The words stung, but Helmuth pretended to let them slide off his back. In reality, they clung to him like a thick fog.
Griswold, two years Wolfric’s younger, didn’t look as certain, but he managed to plaster a half-sneer on his face and follow in his brother’s wake.
A weight seemed to lift off Helmuth’s shoulders as soon as they were gone. He hated the effect they had on him, but he couldn’t help it. Though they were younger, long had he desired their approval. And longer had they denied him.
He gritted those thoughts between his teeth and refocused on Jorg. “Is the story real? Do the Lesser really exist?”
“The best stories are the true ones,” the old man said, his lip curling. He stood, gathered his cane, and hobbled off.
Zelda leapt to her feet and said, “If the Lesser come here, I will run them through!” She brandished a wooden sword that should’ve been too heavy for such a young girl, but which she handled with ease, cutting and slashing.
Helmuth, more slowly, pushed from the log to his feet, propping himself up with one crutch and using the other to swordfight with his sister. She didn’t take it easy on him, and despite her young age was a fierce warrior in her own right. Still, his size and strength advantage eventually allowed him to disarm her, and he hated the pride he felt at the victory.
Sure, you can defeat a child, and a girl no less, he thought.
As they walked back inside the castle, his mind drifted back to the old man’s story. The Lesser, like him, had been underestimated by their enemies.
Yet they’d always emerged victorious.
The thought brought a thin smile to Helmuth’s lips.
Let them underestimate me, he thought. I will not be the Maimed Prince forever. One day I will be king.
“I’m sorry, son,” Helmuth’s father said. His hands were clasped together regally as he sat on the edge of Helmuth’s bed. King Gäric, despite being the most powerful man in the north, a man who’d a dozen times over earned himself the nickname The Undefeated King, looked as uncomfortable as Helmuth had ever seen him.
Helmuth was struggling to understand. “Sorry for what?”
His father refused to look at him, and though Helmuth closed his mind off to the truth, he could sense it sliding around the edges. No. It cannot be.
But it could be. Of course it could.
“The north requires a strong leader, especially in these times, when our enemies surround us like winter storms.”
“And I am not strong.” Helmuth hated his own words. Not because they hurt, but because they were true.
His father didn’t deny it—had never denied it. “Son, I love you with the very core of my being. None of this is your fault. You were born this way. You have your own talents, but you are no warrior.”
Helmuth grabbed his crutches and leapt to his feet, determined to show his father he had more to offer than he knew. He shoved one crutch under his armpit and attempted to wield the other like a sword, like he had the night before against Zelda.
This time, however, one of his feet snagged on the space between tiles and his crutch tangled with his legs. He felt himself falling headfirst and he knew the impact would be painful.
Strong arms caught him just before his face smashed into the ground.
In some ways, it was worse than if he’d bloodied his nose.
His father was right.
I am no warrior.
His father hadn’t told anyone of his decision yet, but Helmuth still felt like people were looking at him differently. Pityingly. The poor boy, he could feel them saying. No good legs to stand on, and now no kingdom either. He has nothing. No reason to live.
Tears stung his eyes and before he could blink them away they dribbled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin.
“Aww…is the little Maimed Prince sad?” a voice said. Mocking. Harsh.
Helmuth wanted to run away and not look back, but, of course, he could not move faster than an awkward hobble.
Slowly, he turned to face Wolfric, who was flanked closely by Griswold.
“It’s sweat, not tears,” Helmuth lied, wiping away the moisture.
“You have to move fast to sweat,” Wolfric said.
Helmuth had no response to that.
“Crippled fool,” Wolfric said, starting to turn away.
“I’m not a fool,” Helmuth said. He couldn’t reject the crippled part, but he had a brain, and knew how to use it.
Wolfric spat on the ground. “You think you’re going to be king someday? That makes you a fool.”
Helmuth blushed, his father’s words coming back to him in a rush. …you are no warrior.
Anger coursed through him as his brothers turned their backs on him as though he weren’t worth another moment of their time. He wanted to hurt them, to punish them for their constant japes and insults, for wounding him without laying a finger on him.
Without thinking, he extended his crutches and swung himself forward in a long stride. They made a clopping-creaking sound, giving him away. Wolfric started to turn back, but Helmuth was already bringing one crutch up, whipping it around, aiming for his brother’s—I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought even as he did it—head…
Wolfric’s hand shot up and grabbed the heel of the wooden crutch from midair, stopping it a hairsbreadth from his jaw. His eyes were alight with a fire Helmuth had never seen in them before. That stare was stripped of all mockery and insult, the void filled with darkness and rage.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he growled. He ripped the crutch from Helmuth’s hand, sweeping a leg out to kick away the other one. Without anything to lean on, his legs crumbled and he fell awkwardly, which was the only way he knew how to fall. The impact was jarring, his bones rattling inside his skin.
Helpless, he looked up at Wolfric and saw the truth of what his brother could really be—what he could become. Aye, he was a bully, but not only that. No, in that vengeful stare he saw the eyes of a killer.
And then it was gone, his expression returning to one of scorn. He kicked Helmuth once in the ribs, curling him into the fetal position, and then stalked off, laughing the whole way.
A noise jarred Helmuth from sleep. He cocked his head, listening. The castle was always silent at night, like an exhausted beast slumbering after a day of hunting its prey.
Silence. Silence. And then, a muffled cry, almost inaudible through the thick stone walls.
Helmuth grabbed his useless legs with his arm and slung them over the edge of the bed in one swift motion. It was almost graceful, though he could only seem to achieve such things when no one was watching, save perhaps Zelda.
He grabbed his crutches and thrust them into place. He eased forward, cautious in the dark. He opened his door and swiveled left, then right, listening. No other sounds emerged. He went right first, pressing his ear to Zelda’s door. Nothing. He pushed it open quietly to find his sister sprawled crookedly across her bedsheets. Her wooden sword was still clutched in one hand, resting on her chest, which rose and fell with the swells of deep sleep.
He closed the door and went the other way. Wolfric’s room was next after his own, and he could see the telltale line of orange light beneath the door. He considered knocking, but then realized he didn’t care about such manners anymore.
Instead, he thrust open the door without preamble.
What he saw surprised him.
Wolfric’s eyes were huge as he turned toward him. He was shirtless, the contours of a chest that was showing the beginnings of true muscle evident in the lanternlight. His night trousers were down to his knees, his pale legs like columns of snow. “Get out!” he hissed.
And though Helmuth knew he should probably obey, he couldn’t, his feet frozen. Because he’d already seen the truth, his mind ticking over the facts, lining them up like tin soldiers about to do battle.
The covers were stripped from the bed, piled in the corner.
His brother’s trousers, though hard to make out in the d
im light, were wet.
His underclothes were even worse, drenched in a spreading patch around his crotch.
And he understood. The shame of not having control of one’s own body. The pity he could already feel in his own expression. The sadness mixed with something hotter, more potent.
The anger.
Wolfric ripped off his pants and stalked toward him in only his underclothes. “I said get out,” he said, pressing his face close, his breath hot and stale.
For some reason, Jorg’s story came back to him in that moment. The Lesser. Believed to be less worthy of life because of how they were born. Hunted. Exterminated. But they could never be defeated.
“I’m telling Father,” Helmuth said coolly, though his heart was hammering in his chest.
Wolfric’s mouth fell open. He grabbed Helmuth’s shirt in a fist. “I’ll kill you.” It was no threat. No, they were far beyond that now. It was a promise.
“Perhaps,” Helmuth said, forcing his stare to meet his brother’s. This was the most important moment in his life, he knew. “But then you’ll have to make it look like an accident. Cover it up. Things will get messy.”
Wolfric’s eyes narrowed, cool, calculating. “What do you want? For me to stop with the nicknames? For me to stop hurting you? Fine. You aren’t worth another second of my time. So long as you promise to never breathe a word of this night to anyone, I’ll leave you alone.”
It was just like Wolfric to think things could be so easy. Life had always been easy for him, after all. But that wasn’t what Helmuth wanted. He wanted what was rightfully his, or at a least a chance at it.
“No, brother. I want the opposite. I want to fight you.”
“What?” Wolfric scoffed.
“You heard me. I want an official duel. The winner takes the crown.”
Wolfric shoved him away. “That’s ridiculous.” But Helmuth could see the gleam in his eyes, for he didn’t yet know their father intended to give him the throne already.
“Fine. It’s your choice,” Helmuth said, impressing even himself with the casualness of his tone. He started to turn away.
“Wait.”
Helmuth turned back, holding back a smile.
“You’ll have your duel, brother. And I shall have my throne.”
They presented their plan to their father the next day. It was a closed meeting, which, in hindsight, was a mistake.
“No,” King Gäric said, much to both their surprise.
“What?” they said at the same time.
“But Father,” Wolfric said.
“I forbid it. I will not have the two of you brawling like common ruffians. And only I decide who shall sit the throne when I die.”
“Father—” Wolfric tried to interject again.
“I said no. And anyway…”—his eyes met Helmuth’s, a million unspoken words passing between them—“the throne is already Wolfric’s. I made the decision two days ago.”
Wolfric’s eyes snapped to Helmuth’s. “You knew?”
Helmuth was caught, and there was no way to hide it. He’d thought if he showed his father he was willing to fight for what was rightfully his, that he would see the real him. The heart of the warrior trapped inside a crippled body.
But he’d failed. And his father saw only his shriveled legs and crutches.
“You’re a snake,” Wolfric spat.
“Watch it, brother,” Helmuth said. He felt numb. He’d lost the only thing he had left, and there was nothing else for them to take away. Next to the crown, his life felt like such a small thing.
Wolfric’s lips clamped shut, and Helmuth felt a swell of satisfaction. He considered whether to tell their father about his brother’s wet bedsheets now, or lord it over him for a while longer.
In the end, the decision was stripped away from him, much like the crown had been.
“I should never have protected your secret, Helmuth,” Wolfric said, his tone softening.
Helmuth stared at him, not understanding. Not quite yet.
“What are you talking about, son?” the king said.
And Helmuth understood, but it was like watching a runaway cart tumble down a hill. You could reach for it, but never hope to stop it.
“He’s been having…problems…at night,” Wolfric said. He gestured to his crotch. “You know, controlling his bladder? I’ve tried to help him, gather his sheets for the laundry, getting him clean nightclothes. But I thought you should know.”
It wasn’t shame Helmuth felt as he stared on, his gaze swapping between his brother and father and back again. It was resignation. In his world, there was no truth but that which Wolfric created. This battle was of words, his against his brother’s. And that was a duel he would lose every time.
He was smarter than his brother—that much he knew—but not as conniving.
So he said nothing, departing the cavernous room, ignoring the pitying way his father called his name, which echoed all around him as he left.
He waited in his room all day. For someone to come. He knew Wolfric and Griswold wouldn’t, nor would he want them to, but he expected his father to come. He didn’t. He wished his mother was still alive, for she always had the right things to say. It was a foolish thought, for one could not speak to the dead and no amount of wishing could raise them from frozen hell.
But the most surprising of all was Zelda. He was certain by now she would’ve heard the news; his brothers weren’t exactly known for discretion.
He waited for her to barge into the room, righteous indignation spreading across her broad-jawed face, her dark eyes glittering with plans to get their revenge.
But she didn’t come, not as the shadows crept through the beveled windows. Not as night fell and the moons rose and the stars filled the sky.
Not as Helmuth spread out a scrap of parchment and wrote his note, his hot, angry tears splashing down on the edges, which curled in response as they dried.
And not as he gathered as many things as he could carry on his back and cast one final look at the room he would never see again.
As he crutched down the hall, he wondered who would find the note. He wondered if they would laugh at the absurdity of it. He wondered if they would feel a shred of remorse.
The words were etched in his mind now, a mantra he would not soon forget:
I will return one day. And I shall have my vengeance.
Though he knew they were the words of an angry child, he gripped them like a weapon as he hobbled out into the night.
Six months later
Being a beggar and a cripple and a young boy had its benefits, especially in the bustling city of Blackstone. For one, Helmuth was practically invisible, too pathetic for anyone to make direct eye contact with. He was certain people were aware of his existence, and yet their eyes roamed past him as if he wasn’t there. They did, however, see his upside-down hat, which received a good quantity of coins each day, though of small denominations.
Something that surprised him the most, however, was that it wasn’t the wealthiest citizens who stooped over to flip him a coin or two, but those barely above his own station. Some of them wore threadbare clothes and holey shoes, and yet they managed to part with coin that could’ve been saved to replace their old clothing.
How did I not know of such things? Helmuth wondered. And, of course, the answer was obvious: Because he’d lived the life of a prince in a castle.
And I hated it. And I felt sorry for myself. And I ran away.
Still, this life on the streets brought him so much more pleasure than his old life had.
Until it didn’t.
In fact, Helmuth had long forgotten that hastily scrawled note written in anger. Vengeance was the last thing on his mind these days. On the streets, survival was the sole focus from dawn to dusk. Where your next meal would come from. Where you would shelter from the cold and wind. How you would protect yourself if those even more desperate than you tried to take what you had. And on and on.
One night, the
se lessons were taught to Helmuth in the harshest of ways.
It hadn’t been a bad night, as far as the life of a beggar went. He’d scrounged enough coin to pay for a hot bowl of soup—served out the back of the tavern, of course, for with his dirty clothes and unkempt condition he wouldn’t be allowed through the front—and found a relatively warm, unoccupied nook in one of his favorite alleyways. He’d bedded down under scraps of parchment and promptly fell asleep.
His dreams, as they often did, painted a picture of a boy that might’ve been him, sword fighting, running and playing, climbing trees. Whole. Unbroken. Two good legs.
Though waking up from such dreams was…hard…he’d grown used to it, and relished the escape from the reality of his body.
On this occasion, however, he awoke to powerful hands dragging him off his feet, the pungent odor of garlic on the man’s breath combining with the smell of oil on his armor. He tried to say something, to demand to know what was happening, but all that came out was a high-pitched squeak.
“By order of Lord Blackstone of House Blackstone, ruler and keeper of order in this great city, you are hereby arrested for sleeping on city property without authorization.” It was a mouthful, but the large man spoke the words in a bored monotone, like he’d said the same many times over—which, as it turned out, he had, on this very night.
Helmuth’s first thought was What? and his second was Why should the wealthiest man in the city, the lord of Blackguard itself, care about a street urchin like me?
And Helmuth’s third thought was: He knows who I am.
Somehow his identity had been realized, despite all his efforts to change his appearance: growing his hair long and purposely dirtying himself and ripping his clothes long before the same occurred naturally.
He would be taken back to Castle Hill.
The thought made him want to die. Here, he was no one, and no one had expectations for him. Expectations that he would never live up to. There, in the northern capital, he was a firstborn prince without a crown, the Maimed Prince, a failure at life.