“Bring him back. I care not how, save that he is alive.”

For several seconds, Roga stood like a statue, his broad shoulders as rigid as the rough-hewn oaken timbers of the royal hall above him, while his intense, grey eyes locked with those of his king. Kennis’ face was weary with grief and age, but there was pleading in his eyes, and a desperation that Roga had never seen there before. He could feel the anticipation and excitement radiating from the eleven men at his back, seeping into him, and firing him up for the long road ahead. What King Kennis had asked of them was not going to be easy.

“We will return your son,” he said at last, his gaze fixed upon the man on the throne. “And we will return your crown and sword. So long as there is hope of Tiarnard’s life, I will not relent in my pursuit. You have my word.”

“I know,” replied Kennis, his voice breaking. The king trembled, wrestling against his emotions, and then with a sheer act of will, forced the tight lines of care from his countenance. “That is why I have entrusted this task to you, and no others. Go now, and may a king’s blessing smile upon your road! I shall hope for your returning before midsummer; while no fear matches that of losing my son, the lords are unruly, and I am loth to send away my twelve champions with the realm tottering on the brink.”

Roga bit at his lip. Kennis was right; the incessant quibbling of the many lords of Riocht was a constant headache, but of late the verbal spats had come once again to hard blows, and only prompt and stern intervention from the crown had averted an all-out war between two lords away out east in the grasslands.

“All haste,” assured Roga. “All strain. And in whatever manner I wish, so long as he is alive.”

Kennis nodded, and Roga whipped out his long, straight messer sword in a salute, holding the blade tight to his chest with his right hand over his heart. In the heavy lamplight of the king’s hall, the silver blade shone like a tongue of wildfire, and the knurled cherrywood grip gleamed like hot steel between his fingers. For several seconds he stood there as tense as a bowstring, and then at a nod from the king, he snapped his sword back to its sheath in one crisp motion. He could feel as much as hear the eleven swords behind him returning to their sheaths in perfect synchrony with his. He spun on his heel to go, and the men of his command parted to let him pass through their midst. The king’s massive hall of wood and stone echoed with the thunder of their firm footfalls, and the monstrous iron bound doors creaked ponderously on their hinges as the throneroom guards swung them wide for Roga’s company, filling the archway with the grey half-light of early morning.

Already, a dozen powerful riding horses were tied to hitching rings along the castle wall near the gates, and were stamping their hooves restlessly. Though much of the castle was still asleep, and only the earliest risers were up and about their duties, there was an undercurrent of tension and excitement that permeated the air. It would likely be midday before word properly spread of the prince’s flight, but in the meantime, it would be impossible to hide the fact that something far out of the ordinary was taking place.

“What have we got to go on?” asked Fellid, Roga’s second in command, as he took several long strides to get abreast of his captain. “Did Kennis tell you anything beyond what the rest of us heard?”

“He told me nothing beyond what the rest of you heard,” replied Roga under his breath.

“Shall we spread out until we have found his trail then, or keep together?”

Roga said nothing in answer, but shot a quick look at Fellid to assure him that all would be explained in due order.

“Belmere,” said Roga, the moment that he reached the horses, “take this to Kavisto straightaway.” He held out a narrow, folded bit of parchment. The last member of his company hurried up to him, took the paper and darted toward the barracks, where Roga’s younger brother was quartered.

“Listen closely,” said Roga in a hushed voice the moment that Belmere was gone. The remaining ten men clustered in around Roga, and he continued in a low voice that went no further than their small ring. “Prince Tiarnard was last seen just after nightfall last night, but it was not until several hours ago that Kennis’ servants realized that his crown and sword were gone too, and that Tiarnard’s horse was missing from the stables. Our- beloved- prince has had as much as nine hour’s headstart on us, and it will be hard to make up, especially as the last proper rain was three weeks ago and the roads are riddled with old tracks. Take your time and be careful. Tiarnard has no great wood-lore himself, and may leave some signs for you to go by. But don’t count on it; he learns fast and despite his hot head, he’s no idiot. Hunt as though you were following a wolf through his own backyard. The future of Riocht depends upon it.”

“Where will you be?” pressed Hinden, after Belmere, the youngest of the company. “Are you not coming with us?”

“I am not,” replied Roga firmly. “At least, not with most of you. There are eight points to the compass, and half a dozen roads that Tiarnard might have taken. We may as well give up now if we mean to stay in one plodding mass. We will travel in twos and threes. Fellid, Thrumbor, pick two companions each, and take the highroad to the grasslands. You will have the most ground to cover, especially after the road splits in Drummindale. Dorn, Kitch, take a man apiece and one go north to Lord Brandain, and one go south along the river road.”

“What of the old cartway to Gorniv?” asked Dorn. “It is little used, compared to the other roads at least, and the prince might have had the wits to realize it.”

“That is my road,” replied Roga, cutting off the end of Dorn’s sentence. “I will take Belmere with me and see what we can find.”

“Belmere?” echoed Fellid in surprise. He glanced swiftly up to see if the last of their company was in sight. But Belmere was still in the barracks and out of earshot. “He has hardly joined our ranks a month ago; if you are taking only one man with you, take someone who will be of some use, and I shall keep Belmere out of trouble.”

“I know what I’m doing,” replied Roga levelly.

“Very well then,” said Fellid, brushing the matter aside. But a flicker of misgiving had flashed across his face, and he was obviously far from satisfied by Roga’s answer.

“And here comes the man now,” exclaimed Roga as Belmere swung out of the large barracks hall and strode swiftly across the packed gravel of the courtyard. In the time it took for Belmere to reach the horses, the four seasoned lieutenants had chosen their riding mates and mounted their steeds.

“You’re with me,” commanded Roga from atop his tall grey stallion as he turned half around to view Belmere. “I’ll explain on the road.” Belmere gave a quick nod and vaulted up to his saddle, positioning his horse just behind Roga’s and a bit to the side.

There was a clear baritone horncall from the south heralding the new day, and the opening of the city gates. At the same moment, the castle bell tolled and the gatemaster gave the order to throw wide the fortress doors. There was a harsh grating sound as the solid timber portcullis rose above their heads. Its thick, solid spikes hung down like stalactites, so near that several of the men had to duck to avoid them as they spurred their horses through the gateway and out into the grey forest morning.

“I’ll give a keg of spiced wine to whoever collars the prince,” promised Fellid from the head of the company, “on top of whatever reward King Kennis bestows.”

“It’s about time you drew even with me,” retorted Dorn with a smirk. “It’s been five years this summer, and you still owe me a pair of riding boots.”

“And five years from now, you’ll still be waiting for them!” riposted Fellid without looking back. There was general laughter at the exchange, but at the back of the group, Roga’s face was serious. He snatched at a little bundle of waxy, bright red flowers that one of the guards on duty had thrown to him. “King’s blood,” they were called, and even in the dead of winter, retained their vibrant sanguine hue undying.

“I will return the blood of my kings,” he murmured pensively, “or spend my own in their service.” The same words were said by all of the company, more a matter of ritual than anything else, if the tone of voice was anything to judge by. Roga thrust his flowers into his riding pack and stood high in the saddle, glimpsing back over the castle walls to catch the first golden gleam of sunrise upon the spires of the high towers. All along the battlement, there was a fiery crimson gleam, like a ribbon of blood, and through the patchy clouds, bits of clear sky could be seen.

The next moment, Roga’s company reached the parting of the ways in the wide open ground to the west of the citadel, and with a rush and clatter of hooves, Fellid and Thrumbor set out at a gallop westward, their four soldiers close behind them. Kitch and his companion shot away to the south, as if racing the others to an alternate finish line.

“Farewell, brothers at arms!” cried Roga, snapping out of his troubled trance just before they were out of earshot. Their reply was lost in the jingle of bit and bridle and the thunder of hooves, but their swords flashed in three wide arcs above their heads before returning to their scabbards.

Best of luck to you,” said Dorn, as he hauled his horse round about, turning it northwards toward the city of Crofa and Lord Brandain’s lands. “You know, Roga, if I got that keg of wine, I’d share it with you. You know full well I would. Don’t forget it now, you hear?”

“I won’t,” replied Roga, one corner of his mouth bending upwards in an amused smile, despite himself. “But I’d be gladder to see Prince Tiarnard home safe again than all the king’s cellars at my command.”

Dorn snorted. “That goes for all of us, Roga. But really, what’s the worst that could happen? Seven to one he comes back all by himself before a fortnight’s up, scared spitless of the woods, and just a little tempered by a few harmless hard knocks out in the big wild world. I reckon he’ll find it a rude surprise that the trees aren’t standing in line to wait on him, and the bushes won’t do his bidding as gladly as the palace servants.”

Roga’s jaw hardened and he shook his head slowly. “If you’re right about that,” he said in a low voice, I’ll buy you that keg of wine and a pair of new boots.”

“Really? What’s come over you?” exclaimed Dorn eagerly, swinging round about to stare at his captain. “I don’t even remember the last time Roga made a bet!”

“He didn’t.”

“Pff! Very well then,” replied Dorn, shaking his head. “Farewell Roga! May your road be twice as glad as you expect mine to be!”

“Was that a curse?” inquired Dorn’s companion, a sandy-haired young man with a thick, short beard. Dorn smacked him across the forehead good-temperedly with the back of his gloved hand and the four remaining riders spurred their horses to the north and northeast.

“Roga! Roga, wait!” came a sudden cry, strained and confused, from the direction of the gate. Roga spun in the saddle just long enough to see a young man in his mid twenties rocket between the two guards who stepped in his way, stumble on a tussock of grass, and keep coming. His short chestnut hair was ruffled by the wind, and the front of his white linen shirt was only half laced up. In his right hand was the letter that Belmere had delivered only a few minutes ago, gripped so tightly that it was crumpled and ripped at the edges. Kavisto’s face was flushed from the sudden exertion of his sprint, and his eyes were wild with shock. At a gesture from Roga he skidded to a halt, holding up the parchment questioningly, as if he couldn’t believe that it was meant for him.

“Watch him,” said Roga in a voice that was near to a hiss. “You know who I mean.” Though his voice was lost in the distance between them, Kavisto had no trouble reading the words on his brother’s lips. His face paled and the letter in his hand dropped slightly. For several seconds his gaze was locked with Roga’s, and then with a loud “hyah!” Roga smote the flank of his horse and shot away to the northeast. A terrible, sinking feeling struck Kavisto in the pit of his stomach and settled there, unwilling to leave. It was several minutes before he was able to tear himself away from where he was standing and make his way back to the castle gates. As he passed beneath their shadow, unhampered by the guards this time, a shiver gripped his spine and raked down it, like a dagger screeching across a stone. “Watch him. You know who I mean.”