Donald, Kwestor, and Muce trooped up the hill toward the manor house. The sunny, cloudless morning promised a pleasant day, with only a faint whisper of an autumn fast approaching. A light breeze carried the now familiar smells of the village—chickens, cooking grease, manure, and unburied garbage.
They left the gond back at the inn. Donald considered taking it because of the air of nobility riding the beast imparted, but he decided against it, mainly because he did not really like riding, but also because it somehow seemed wrong for him to ride while his companions walked. Of course he represented royalty and held a station far above regular commoners like his companions, but this distinction seemed less significant away from the castle. No matter, he rationalized, the warm sun and light breeze made it a lovely morning and a pleasant day for a stroll.
“Do you think he’ll feed us?” Muce asked. These were the first words spoken by the normally talkative notso since they left the inn, and they took Donald by surprise for both their suddenness and their content.
The prince peered at him. “What?”
“Do you think he’ll give us breakfast?”
“Who?”
“This general guy. I bet a posh gent like that would put out a nice spread.”
“But we just had breakfast a couple of hours ago!”
“Well, yeah but I wouldn’t turn down some more eggs and maybe some nice fried potatoes, you know, the kind cooked in bacon fat until they’re crunchy. My mom used to make this kind you could…”
“Muce!”
“Huh?”
The prince took a deep breath. “I don’t think we’ll be offered another breakfast.”
“Oh—too bad,” Muce said with noticeable disappointment. “I could have really gone for some—”
Donald shot him a look of warning.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s getting close to lunch time. Do you think—?”
“No!”
They approached the front of the manor house with Kwestor in the lead. Donald thought it would be best if the ranger announced them since he knew the general. When he reached the heavy wooden door, Kwestor lifted the iron ring of the knocker and let it fall. A few moments later, the door opened part way against a chain. An elderly man peeked out.
“Eh?” he asked. Then a look of recognition crossed his scarred face. “Kwethdoh?”
“Yes, Sarge. It’s me. I’m with Prince Donald. He’d like to see the general.”
“Thee the genewal?”
“Yes.”
“Whad aboud?”
Kwestor seemed to consider for a moment before answering. “A matter of royal concern.”
Donald was a royal, and he was concerned, so technically Kwestor provided an honest reply.
“Wehh, I don’d know. Id’th nod noon yed and he’th, uh, wehh, you know…”
“Yes, I know. He’s either sleeping in, sleeping something off, or sleeping with an acquaintance. I don’t care to know which. We can wait for you to check to see if he’s available.”
“Uh, pwinth, you thed?”
“Yes, Prince Donald. The king’s youngest son.”
“M’kay. Waid heh.”
He closed the door leaving the three companions to wait outside.
“What happened to him?” Donald whispered. The man who opened the door looked like he had been hit by a very angry building, or sat on by a gond—in armor—repeatedly. A network of scars crossed his face like the road map of a densely populated city, from which one of his ears and an eye had fled some time long ago. The only thing holding him up seemed to be a heavy, iron-shod staff, which he held clutched in a claw-like hand.
“Sarge? Pretty much everything. Life’s been especially hard on him, but he’s tougher than he looks.”
“They do say, that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Muce said.
“Only an idiot would say that. In my experience, that which doesn’t kill you leaves you maimed and crippled.”
After about ten minutes, Donald urged Kwestor to knock again, but the ranger convinced him they should wait a little longer. Frustrated, he reached for the knocker himself, when they heard the metallic clink of the latch and a clatter from the chain being withdrawn.
“Pleeth come in,” Sarge said. “Uh, Youh Highneth.” Donald noticed the man held, at best, four teeth in his mouth, one of them broken.
Once they all gathered in the house, Sarge closed the door. “Da genuwal wihh be down in a minud.” He pointed to a room to their left. “Pleeth make youhthelbs comfable in da pahloh.”
They strolled into the room and sat in separate cushioned chairs around a low, round table. Very little sunshine entered through the small, narrow windows even in broad daylight, making the room dark and a bit musty. Donald looked at the table and noticed an iron statue of a winged maiden holding a sword, placed slightly off center between two candlesticks. He lifted it from the table with a slow, careful hand and examined it briefly before returning it to a more aesthetically pleasing position, mainly for something to do while they waited.
General Attemill joined them before very long, dressed in a simple white shirt, brown trousers, and sandals. His beard needed a trim, but it looked as though he, or someone, had tried to comb his mop of white hair without entirely succeeding. “Good morning, gentlemen. What may I do for you this fine morning?” The cheery question came with an only slightly reserved smile.
All three of his guests rose from their seats. “General Attemill, I would like to present Donald Overseer, Prince of Westgrove, third son of King Leonard, and our traveling companion, Muce.” Kwestor introduced them with as much formal dignity as Donald had ever heard him muster. Good words, but the tone might give the impression they would much prefer to be anywhere else. The general knew his old scout, though, and probably did not read this into it. If he did, he gave no indication. For Kwestor, this was downright cheerful.
“Thank you, Kwestor. How long has it been?” he asked, smiling.
“Almost ten years, I think. I don’t really keep count. One is much like another after all.”
“Yes, of course.” The general’s smile slipped a bit.
Donald spoke up, getting straight to the point. “General Attemill, I understand you received a message from my father recently, possibly regarding an upcoming troop deployment. I would like some more information on that, if you would.”
“May I ask what makes you think this, Your Highness?”
Donald had hoped the general would simply tell them out of deference to his title and because Kwestor could verify his identity as a prince, rather than as a spy, or an imposter, or anything similarly unsavory. After Kwestor’s warning though, he considered what he might say if the general resisted. He had even rehearsed it a little in his head on the walk there.
“General, I am the king’s son. You must appreciate that I would be aware of his plans. But we left Greatbridge three weeks ago, and it appears as if something significant enough for my father to accelerate his timetable has happened since then. If I am to adjust my own actions appropriately, I need to know what that was.” Donald could not be certain any of this made sense. He knew nothing about a war with Gotrox before Kwestor told him about it at breakfast, and all he knew about his father’s timetable was when he liked to eat dinner. He hoped he at least sounded involved and reasonably well-informed. He just imagined himself a character in an adventure book and said what he thought sounded right for the hero to say in a situation like this. He waited for the general to consider his request and tried to look him in the eye with as much confidence as he could fake.
“I see. I don’t suppose you could tell me what might have provoked the Gotroxians.”
“I’m sorry, General, but I really can’t talk about that.” And please don’t ask anything else, he added silently.
“Well. All right. The messenger did relay that it would be my call about who I shared it with in order to accomplish the task. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll g
o get it.”
The officer left the room and returned a few minutes later holding a piece of paper.
“This is the translation. The actual message was in code.” He handing the paper to Donald.
AUTH: HM WSTGRV
ATTN: CDR BFRGE
SUBJ: UNC RPTS RE GTX MGX WPN
3X+ RPTS RC’D RE GTX PLAN TO DEPLOY WARDEN MONUMENT AS SPEARHEAD WPN FOR INVSN. MTHD UNK. CPBLTY UNK. IOC UNK. MGX MTHD TO ANIMATE STATUE IND.
HM TO CMD 10K FT / 5C MNT TRPS TO GTX BRDR O/A WNTR SOLS. WILL RQR LOG SPT ENROUTE. EST 2 – 5 D.E. AT YOUR LOC.
YOUR ACTION: ARRANGE AVLBTY LOG S&S TO SPT THIS DEPLOYMENT. HM FUNDING NTE 5K WGT.
POC THIS ACTION: H BARTER, CA TO HM
Donald examined it for several minutes. He turned it over to see if the other side provided any clarification, but he found it blank. Eventually he asked, “This is the decrypted message?”
“Yes, Your Highness. It’s still a bit difficult if you’re not familiar with the jargon. Here, let me read it to you.”
Donald handed the paper back to General Attemill who cleared his throat and began reading.
“By the authority of His Majesty, King of Westgrove to the Commander at Barter’s Forge on the subject of unconfirmed reports to use the Warden Monument as a magical weapon to spearhead an invasion.”
He paused for a moment and looked at the prince. “I am, of course, paraphrasing a bit for clarity.”
Donald nodded. “Thank you, General. I appreciate that. Please continue.”
“All right. Let’s see. Where was I? Oh, yes.
“We are unaware of how the Gotroxians will make use of the Warden, what the capabilities of the weapon are, or when it will become operational for the first time. The reports we have so far, imply the Gotroxians have found a magical method to animate the statue.
“That would be the Warden,” he added, looking up.
“His Majesty will command a force of ten thousand foot and five hundred mounted troops for deployment to the border with Gotrox about the time of the winter solstice. This troop movement will require logistical support—food, a place to camp, someone to repair wagons, and things like that,” he explained—“along the way. They will be in your area for two to five days.
“You are required to arrange for the supplies and services required to support this deployment. The crown will pay up to five thousand Westgrovian gold-trees to cover costs.
“The point of contact for this action is Horace Barter, Chief Adviser to His Majesty.
“That’s it.”
“I see. Thank you. That is a new twist,” he added to make his implication before sound more plausible. “What is this Warden monument it mentions?”
“It refers to the Warden of Mystic Defiance. It’s an ancient monument on the Gotroxian side of the border in the mountains. Basically, it’s a big, black, stone statue. I don’t think anyone knows what it’s supposed to represent. It’s probably some ancient king or god or something like that. The legend says it is extremely magical and a guardian of all of humanity. I’ve heard stories about it since I was very young. It’s pretty famous, really. You never heard of it?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The prince shook his head and turned to Kwestor. “Have you?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it. It’s impressive. People today can’t make things like that.”
“Can this be true? Can this big statue be brought to life and used to attack us?”
“Who knows?” asked the ranger rhetorically. “I don’t do magic. But I rather doubt it.”
“My mom knows a lot about magic,” Muce interjected. “She’s almost an expert. She has a little magic ability of her own, even. There was this one time when she was—”
“Not now, Muce,” Donald interrupted.
“Oh, sure. Sorry.”
“What do you think, General? Can there be any truth to this?”
“I’ll have to go along with Kwestor on this one. I’ve seen a little magic, reading portents, predicting the weather, casting of blessings and curses, things like that, but I’ve never seen any of the kind of magic that could do something like this. There are stories, of course, but they are of a time very long ago. Of course, so is the Warden. I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible, but it’s not my job to make that decision. The king ordered me to support a troop deployment, and that is what I will do. If he thinks there may be some truth to it, then that’s good enough for me.”
“You may have a point, General,” Donald said. He could feel a sense of excitement building and tried, with incomplete success, to control it. “The stories of powerful magic all take place very long ago. And this Warden statue is apparently very ancient itself. It may date from the same time as those stories. If so, it is possible the Gotroxians have found some sort of magical device, or book or something that will allow them to bring back that ancient magic. I remember reading a stor… uh; I remember reading something along those lines once. But if they’ve rediscovered a lost magic, this could be very serious!”
“So, this Warden threat is something new, I take it.”
“Yes. And it’s something I really need to think about, General. I appreciate you seeing us. You have been very helpful.”
“At your service always, Your Highness.”
When they reached the road, Donald turned to Kwestor. “Can you think of any reason for Gotrox to invade Westgrove that makes sense?”
“No, nothing that makes sense. But of all the things that don’t make sense there’s race hatred, religious intolerance, power hunger, a lust for wealth, paranoia, and of course the general joy people seem to get out of beating on others and stealing what they have. But that’s just people being people. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. It’s probably just because we’ve had peace for too long. Someone must have gotten bored.”
“Uh, right,” the prince said noncommittally. Donald tried to remember if anything he observed at home might indicate a shift in power, commerce, or anything else that might cause tension between the two kingdoms. He seldom paid much attention to such things, and despite being the son of the king, he understood very little about the forces currently influencing the kingdom. He had realized this before, but now it disturbed him. A strong desire to do something about this threat provoked him, teasing him to take some kind of action. He might not be the heir to the throne like his brother Allan or an officer in the army like his brother Robert, but there must be something he could do to help protect the kingdom. He searched for an idea, but nothing came to him. He possessed no special ability regarding things magical and no knowledge of who might. If the Gotroxians planned to activate this Warden of Mystic Defiance, he saw very little he could do about it other than possibly help the general gather the supplies his father ordered, but this hardly seemed the kind of heroic act he hoped to accomplish.