Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

“Drod Laphel,” went on the prince, “was also handy with spear and throwing ax, and had besides learnt certain charms that enabled him to bewitch serpents. When pausing in this city, he soon fell afoul of my guardsmen. Ten set on him, and accordingly he slew them single-handedly, if admittedly in two batches of five. Following the episode, I had him dispatched to thieve back the vital article I miss. I even had, numbskull that I was, some faith that he, of all men, might succeed where no other ever had. But no. Drod Laphel, the snake-charmer, athlete, and magician of swords, returned empty-handed. Quite literally, since he lacked both of them. And he was deader than a coffin nail, besides being the awful shade of rotted plums.”

Zire cleared his throat. Bretilf regarded his boots, as if counting the cracks in their leather.

“Are we then to conclude,” said Zire, “our punishment for culling your degenerate guards is, personally, to be forced to undertake the self-same quest?”

“You are brave men,” said the False Prince with dreary jealousy. “Bold and reckless as lions. Yes, you will be made to go. That much sorcery I can command. Understand this, too. If I were able to reclaim the needed object, and my rightful power given to me, I would not require a single human guard. I would throw the degenerates out, nor would they dare return here. Additionally, though it hardly merits saying, as you will never succeed at this challenge, whoever is successful will find his reward proportionate. Rather than death, riches beyond comprehension would be rendered you.” Sourly, he recapped: “But best not to dwell on futile daydreams. Nor have I any pity for you. Why should I pity others when my own lot is so cruel? The supernatural agencies that should guard Cashloria are gone, or in hiding. The heart of the city itself refuses to acknowledge me, and conversely does me ill-turns. Only those guards, and these two creatures here, stand between me and the vengeance of a rioting populace. Were all my weakness known, I should not last a minute. But my days are scarce enough. Cashloria’s thwarted energies are already killing me. Can you see? How old would you say I am?”

Neither Bretilf nor Zire replied.

“Fifteen,” said the False Prince, lowering his blue, dead eyes. “I am fifteen. And if I leave Cashloria, its stony atoms will tear me in pieces. While if I remain, they will drain me of all life in another year. Yes, you shall go and try to snatch back for me the sacred artifact, the Garment of Winning, as it is called. Why should I spare you? Who, in the name of any god, has ever spared me?”

“So, tell me of your father,” said Zire, as they rode over the long stone bridge above the Ca.

“A minor lordlet, killed by assassins before my birth. My mother and grandsire raised me in the irksome shadow of his death. At eleven I broke free.”

“Then I believe your father died too young to have coined me.”

“Who was your own?”

“A chalk merchant. I grew up white as a sheep, till at seventeen some foe threw me down a well. Crawling out, no one recognized the red-headed youth who then stole the local grandee’s horse, and pelted for freedom. I doubt my father, either, sired you. He was less white than uncouth and uncomely. No elegant lady, wed to—or widowed of—a lordlet would have let him touch her maid, let alone herself.”

After this they rode awhile unspeaking. The river gushed green below, and on the farther bank the daytime forest was massed like a russet storm cloud.

They had no choice but to undertake the lethal task, so much had been made clear to them, not least by the False Prince’s wizards, whose spokesman was a man in unfriendly middle age. “You are already under Cashloria’s geas,” he had told them. “It will avail you nothing to essay escape. You must travel to the place of dread, there enter in, and do whatever you’re able to retrieve the Garment of Princedom—which is otherwise known as The Robe Which Wins All Wars.”

At this news, Zire had yawned convulsively and Bretilf’s hungry stomach grumbled. They had been from the start well aware some coercive spell was on them. They were its captives until either they had gained the trophy—or died, “horribly,” in the attempt.

During the breakfast that was eventually served them, and that might have been enjoyable, including platters of fresh-baked shrimp, clam, and prawn, good ham, and eggs curdled with white wine, the indefatigable wizard informed them of all the conditions of their unwanted and unavoidable quest.