The Prisoner of Carronne - 18. Chapter 18

-- Chapter Eighteen --

‘You knew the meaning of Enoch’s words this morning,’ Ansel said quietly, as he rode beside Jamal on their journey.

‘Yes,’ Jamal replied. ‘Though I wasn’t sure what to do with it at first.’

Ansel’s mouth curved in something close to a smile. ‘Good. If you’d have thought you had known, or if you had done anything other than respond the way you did, I’d be worried.’

He shifted in the saddle, adjusting for his leg.

‘You were being tested, and you proved yourself capable. A good knight must always be capable. And now, your standing amongst this small band of knights is on the rise. Chandar has chosen well.’

Jamal glanced back, where Enoch rode a little apart, eyes on the road ahead.

‘Leadership isn’t for everyone, my young friend,’ Ansel went on. ‘It can be given . . . and it can be taken . . . and sometimes in ways you least expect. The trick is recognising it when it arrives, and reacting to it by following your head and your heart.’

Jamal nodded, the weight of it settling upon him.

‘He’s done this before,’ Ansel added. ‘Yielded first, to see what follows. I suspect he sees in you what Marin and I both see.’

‘And what is that, Sir Ansel?’

‘Someone who is capable,’ the knight replied. ‘And worthy.’

That night, as they made camp inland among low scrub and wind-shaped trees, Jamal was approached by Marin, while he was checking the picket lines.

‘You didn’t puff your chest,’ she said abruptly.

Jamal looked up. ‘I didn’t think it required it.’

She huffed a laugh. ‘Good answer. Dangerous, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Because now we’ll expect you to keep doing it.’

She leaned against a tree, arms folded.

‘Enoch doesn’t bend unless he chooses to,’ she said. ‘Him stepping aside like that, it tells me something.’

‘And what’s that?’ Jamal replied, while also remembering the words of Sir Ansel from earlier.

‘That you’re not just carrying Chandar’s words anymore. You’re also carrying ours,’ she said, before she pushed off the tree and walked away, leaving Jamal to stare after her.

Later, Jamal sat with Whip and Deven, sharing a quiet meal. The lads spoke easily now, the presence of the knights no longer an unspoken weight but something woven into the journey.

Across the fire, Enoch caught Jamal’s eye and gave a nod of his head; not deeply, not formally, but just enough.

Finally, Jamal understood. Leadership was not about being the strongest voice, or the oldest, or the most scarred.

Sometimes, it was about being the one that others chose to follow, without needing to say why.

And sometimes, the true test was as simple as trust.

*   *   *

But it wasn’t just Jamal for whom this journey proved to be an awakening. His companions too, Whip and Deven, were growing in confidence and showing their mettle.

The following morning it was Whip who took the lead, not by asking, or by telling, but simply by swinging into the saddle first and nudging his horse forward, while the others were still settling packs. He rode easily, as ever, but there was purpose to it now, an awareness of the land ahead rather than simply a boy’s delight in motion.

‘There’s a bend coming up,’ he called back. ‘Track narrows. Best not bunch up.’

Jamal found himself smiling. He once may have issued the same instruction, careful and measured, but now it came from Whip without hesitation.

Deven followed close behind Whip, eyes scanning the scrub and the rise beyond. When they paused at a swiftly flowing creek, it was Deven who dismounted first, testing the footing with the butt of his spear.

‘Stones are slick on the left,’ he said. ‘Better cross a little downstream, where the water levels out.’

Marin glanced at him, assessing. ‘You certain?’

Deven nodded. ‘Yes.’

That was all. They moved downstream and crossed without incident.

It was only later, as they rode through a stretch of low woodland, Jamal realised something had changed.

He was no longer listening for danger alone. He was listening with them.

Whip pointed out fresh hoofprints near the trail. Not horses, but mules, shod unevenly.

‘Could be traders,’ Whip said. ‘Or men pretending to be.’

Ansel murmured approval. ‘Good eye, lad.’

Whip flushed, but his grin lingered.

Deven said little, as usual, but when they made camp that evening, it was he who quietly repositioned the fire, moving it away from the wind and closer to the shelter of a fallen log. After Deven went to fetch water, he handed Jamal a filled skin without comment.

Jamal accepted it with a nod. It was a small exchange, unremarkable to anyone else, but to Jamal, it meant everything.

As dusk settled, Jamal sat back on his heels, watching the three fires take shape — Ansel and Enoch speaking softly together, Marin sharpening her blade, and Whip and Deven laughing quietly over some half-remembered village story.

They were no longer passengers on his mission. They were more than that. They were companions. And Jamal realised then that leadership had not lifted him above his friends, it had drawn them up. In trusting him, they had found space to trust themselves.

Jamal thought of the village they had left behind — of three lads riding out under a sky that had seemed impossibly wide.

‘They’ll walk taller when this is done,’ he thought to himself. ‘Whatever becomes of the Order.’

The road had done that.

Later, when the camp had settled and the stars were out, Whip lay back on his bedroll and stared up at the sky.

‘Funny thing,’ he said. ‘I used to think you had to be born to something. Like, to be a knight, or a leader.’

Deven shifted beside him. ‘Not born,’ he said. ‘Chosen . . . or simply given a chance to prove yourself.’

Whip considered that, then nodded in the darkness.

Jamal lay listening, the amulet warm against his chest, the sea, and Carronne far behind them now, but still present in memory.

He did not interrupt. He did not correct them. He let the moment belong to them.

And in doing so, he understood something else the road had taught him:

That the truest mark of rising is not how many look to you for answers, but how many begin to find their own.

*   *   *

The ride towards Highshaw had been hard.

For two days Luther had pushed them, stopping only long enough to water their horses at the streams that ran down from the eastern hills and graze briefly while he and his companions rested. The Prince rode beside him in silence for much of the journey, wrapped in a borrowed cloak that hid the remnants of his captivity, while Drake rode behind them.

The boy had barely slept since leaving Carronne, but he refused to complain. Each mile that carried him farther from Septimus, and closer to Christos, seemed to give him fresh strength.

By the afternoon of the second day the road had narrowed to little more than a winding track through dense forest. The air was cooler here, scented with pine and damp stone. Above the treetops the mountains rose higher with every league they travelled. They were not on the main roadway, as wherever possible they were still keeping to cover – which did tend to slow them – but they were getting closer to their destination.

They made camp beside a mountain stream, with the blacksmiths and the farmer quickly setting about to secure the picket line, as Garrett and the others gathered wood for a small fire.

While Carel tended to the Warlock and made him comfortable, Luther and Raemande sat on a rock, watching what was going on around them.

‘Not far now,’ Luther said quietly.

Raemande glanced toward him. ‘You’ve been saying that for the past day,’

Luther smiled faintly. ‘That’s because it’s true. Do you not remember the lay of this land as well as I do?’

Now it was Raemande’s turn to offer a faint smile, but he said nothing, just gave a nod instead.

‘In our haste to escape, we haven’t exactly had a chance to talk,’ Luther said quietly. ‘There is much I need to say to you.’

‘And I, to you, my dearest friend,’ Raemande replied. ‘But tell me first, what of Jamal? Why is he not with us? Have you made a knight of him yet?’

‘No, he has yet to earn his tattoo, but it shan’t be long, I feel. He is definitely worthy. Right now, he has been charged with a task . . . by Chandar nonetheless.’

‘Now I’m intrigued,’ the Prince replied.

‘The knights are gathering once more, Raemande. Word of your capture spread quickly on the winds, and our knights, what little of them are left, began to return to the Valley of the Ancients. There are always those, however, who need to be called, and so Chandar despatched Jamal, with two village lads to keep him company, to call them home.’

For a few moments the Prince said nothing as he contemplated what this meant.

‘Let me guess,’ he finally said. ‘He sent the lad to round up Marin, Ansel and Enoch? He’ll have his work cut out for him there!’

‘The boy has a charm all his own,’ Luther replied. ‘He will succeed.’

‘I truly hope so.’

‘But now, to more pressing matters,’ Luther said. ‘How are you faring, after your confinement? Now that you are free, is your body able to stand the travel, and whatever else may be ahead?’

Raemande offered a smile. ‘I am faring much better than I had expected I would. Being out, and moving, feeling the sun on my face and the wind in my hair . . . it has got the juices flowing again, I feel. It won’t be long before I am back to my old state once more.’

‘I am pleased to hear that, my friend.’

As Rae looked down at his body and the state of his clothes, however, Luther noticed his nose twitch and a frown crease his friend’s brow.

‘If only the same could be said for these soiled rags I am wearing,’ Raemande said, with a chuckle. ‘The truth beknown, I really do need to bathe . . . do you have a cleansing bar in your pack? I am sure that after being confined for so long, I must be offensive.’

‘It isn’t just you. Weeks on the road can have the same effect. Just let me fetch the bar,’ Luther replied, before getting to his feet and crossing to where his saddle was propped against a tree, with his pack beside it.

The campfire’s glow was just building as Luther passed the cleansing bar, which smelled faintly of pine, to Raemande. Their fingers lingered in the exchange until the touch became a silent promise. Raemande’s eyes – still haunted by dungeon shadows – held Luther’s, with emotion clearly showing beneath the exhaustion.

‘Walk with me,’ the Prince murmured.

With dusk beginning to close in around them, they slipped away from their companions and followed the stream’s silver thread downstream, with curious eyes upon them. When Drake went to say something Garrett’s very slight shake of the head told him to hold on to whatever thought it was that had formed in his head.

The night air was warm, and carried pine and wet stone; the moon was just clearing the lip of the surrounding mountains, adding a reflection to the water, like molten light. After a bend, the bank opened into a deep, sheltered pool where the water cascaded over rocks, falling gently into the pool. Mist rose like an icy breath.

Raemande stopped at the edge. He stripped without haste – boots, tunic, shirt, breeches, smallclothes – each piece dropped to the stones. Moonlight traced new scars across his ribs and the familiar lines of his body: lean muscle, the faint trail of fair hair leading downward, his arousal already evident despite the cold. A sure sign that he was on the way back from whatever place he had been in.

He waded in, the water climbing his thighs, then his hips, until it lapped at his waist. A sharp shiver ran through him, nipples tightening, then he turned and held out a hand.

‘Join me.’

Luther's throat tightened. He kicked off his boots and shed his own clothes slowly. There was no armour, just the clothes of a common man for this mission, and they fell in a pile beside those of the Prince. Naked, he felt the evening's chill bite his skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the warmth rising in his blood. The water shocked, cold against his skin as he stepped in, moving forward to meet the Prince until only inches separated them.

Raemande's golden hair, dirty and matted from days and weeks of captivity, clung to his neck; droplets slid down the planes of his chest. The Prince reached out first, palm flat against Luther’s chest, feeling the thunder of his heart. ‘You came for me,’ he whispered, voice cracking. ‘Even after I broke us.’

Luther caught Raemande’s wrist, pressed the hand harder against his skin, over his heart. ‘I never left you. Not here,’ he said, before tapping Raemande’s chest with Raemande’s hand, then releasing it and sliding his fingers up to cup his friend’s jaw. ‘Even when I hated you for it.’

‘Even after everything I said. After I chose duty over . . . us.’

‘I never stopped being yours,’ Luther said, his voice rough and sounding scratchy.

Raemande's laugh was small, pained. ‘I hated myself more,’ he said.

As he had entered the water, Luther had picked up the soap, from where it had been set it on a rock and after dipping his hands and the soap in the water, started to work it between his hands until a rich lather formed. Knowing what was coming, Raemande dropped to his knees and then dunked his head under the water, before standing once more, rivulets of water running down over his smooth chest.

Luther washed Raemande's hair first, fingers gentle against the scalp, rinsing away the grime of the Dark Lord's dungeons. Then his neck, his shoulders, the hollow of his throat. His touch lingered over old scars: the jagged line from a wyvern's talon, the burn from a fire elemental. Each one he traced as though relearning a map he had once known by heart. When his hands moved lower, across the prince's chest, Raemande exhaled shakily and leaned into the touch.

‘I'm sorry,’ Raemande whispered against Luther's collarbone, as he leaned into Luther. ‘For believing duty demanded I break us both.’

Luther's hands stilled on Raemande's waist. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he answered. ‘You only did what must be done, for the Kingdom, above all else. It was selfish of me to expect otherwise.’

The water moved around them, soft and ceaseless. Raemande lifted his face; their mouths met – slow at first, tasting salt and forgiveness, then deeper, as though the years apart had starved them both. Hands roamed, rediscovering planes and curves.

They did not rush. This was a reunion, not a conquest. They simply held each other, bodies aligned, breathing in rhythm while the water lapped at their hips.

When they drew far enough apart to speak again, Raemande rested his forehead against Luther's.

‘Your turn now,’ Rae said to his friend, before picking up the soap from the rock it had been placed upon and then building a lather between his hands. Luther watched, with a wry smile etched on his face.

With somewhat clumsy fingers, Rae washed the chest of Luther, running his hands over the chiselled body, moving around him, massaging Luther’s shoulders and arms, each touch gentle, and filled with a love that only these two men could know.

‘We ride for Highshaw tomorrow, and then, I suspect, the Dark Lord comes for us,’ Luther said quietly. ‘He always intended to draw me out. You were the bait, and I the fool who took it.’

Raemande's fingers tightened on Luther's back. ‘Not a fool. My knight. My heart,’ he said, before he kissed Luther again, softer this time. ‘Whatever comes after Highshaw – armies, dragons, sorcery – we face it together; not alone. The order will rally, before the Dark Lord comes.’

Luther nodded, throat too tight for words. He pulled Raemande closer until there was no space left between them, only warmth and the steady drum of two hearts against each other.

They washed each other once more, slower now, tender, then waded out together, seeking their soiled clothes from the bank and washing these also. Scrubbing them with the soap, they then rinsed them, before wringing them out as best they could.

They dressed on the bank, returning to their damp clothes, with stolen touches and quiet laughter, then hand-in-hand, and barefoot, they returned upstream. The camp’s fire was a distant beacon in the settling night. The others would see, and whisper, and perhaps judge, but it no longer mattered.

Whatever battles waited – against the Dark Lord, against tradition, against time itself – they would meet them side by side.

*   *   *

Garrett was the first to see his companions approach, entering the circle of light thrown by the fire, still hand-in-hand. He offered them a nod and a smile, then said, ‘I take it the bath house is now free?’

Luther grinned at him, then glanced around at the others, whose faces wore a mixture of expressions; some knowing, some surprised, and some perhaps even shocked.

‘Still plenty of water,’ Luther replied. ‘Perhaps you should clean up yourself, before we reach Highshaw?’

‘Perhaps I should do just that,’ the knight replied, before lumbering to his feet.

Luther and the Prince found positions close enough to the fire, so their clothes might dry quickly, then they watched as Garrett headed first for his saddle, and then for the path that led to the waterhole.

‘Don’t be bashful, men,’ they heard Garrett call back over his shoulder, which brought a round of laughter from the group. It seemed that one person did not laugh, however, and just moments later it was Drake who found his feet and followed the knight into the darkness. Then, after a few murmurings were heard nearby, the Warlock’s boy, Carel, also followed.

‘Seems like the water hole might soon have steam arising,’ Raemande whispered to Luther.

‘It seems so,’ answered the knight.

‘Is the boy, Drake, of age?’

‘He has earned his place amongst us. He is as game as they come, and eager. There is also another he pines for, so perhaps he is about to ask Garrett to show him the ways of the knighthood.’

‘So it seems,’ Raemande replied.

*   *   *

They crested a low ridge shortly after noon, and beyond it the land opened suddenly. The place did not have the beauty of the Valley of the Ancients, but what stretched before them was still a welcome sight.

Great slopes of green forest rolled down toward a wide lake, surrounded by almost barren flats, where the ruins of Highshaw stood upon a rise of stone. Once the fortress had guarded the councils of kings, though age had weathered its walls, and the towers now bore the scars of centuries. The place still carried the weight of its former glory, and was a place central to the Order, even after all this time.

And on this day, it was no longer empty.

Campfires dotted the valley floor. Horses grazed among clusters of tents. Banners moved in the afternoon wind.

Drake leaned forward in his saddle.

‘By the gods . . . there are knights! Dozens of them!’

Luther let out a slow breath he had not realised he had been holding. ‘We made it,’ he said quietly, just as Raemande pulled to a stop beside him and reached across, placing a hand on his shoulder.

They shared a look which only another Knight of the Order could know. They were home.

As they began their descent into the valley, figures below quickly noticed their approach. Riders moved to intercept them, cloaks snapping behind them as they galloped across the grass.

Drake tensed.

‘Friends?’ he asked.

‘Yes, friends,’ Luther said calmly.

The riders slowed as they drew closer. At their head rode a tall figure in a familiar white tunic, his grey beard stirring in the wind. It was Erhan, the last knight to have joined them in the Valley of the Ancients, before Luther and his men had departed.

The knight pulled his horse to a halt several paces away, and for a few moments he simply stared. Then his eyes moved from Luther to the figure beside him.

A hush seemed to fall across the riders, but then, as recognition dawned, each of them dismounted and dropped to one knee immediately, heads bowed.

The old warrior stepped forward and knelt. ‘My Prince,’ he said.

Raemande looked momentarily overwhelmed, then slipped from his horse and walked to the knight.

‘You need not . . .’ Raemande said, before he thrust his right hand forward, the dragon tattoo on his forearm showing clearly.

‘It has been far too long, Sire,’ Erhan said quietly, glancing up to see the Prince extend his arm.

‘Then let us not waste more time,’ Raemande replied, while accepting Erhan’s arm as he stood. The two men hugged briefly and then released, before Erhan extended an arm to Luther, who had dismounted, and then Garrett, in turn.

The knights around them began to murmur as word spread quickly through the riders gathering behind them.

The Prince lives. The Prince has returned.

‘Who else is here?’ Luther asked.

‘Everyone from the valley, Chandar included,’ Erhan replied. ‘But others are arriving every day, appearing from out of nowhere it seems.’

‘Word has been spreading from the time our Prince had been taken,’ Luther remarked.

‘But to send them here?’ Erhan queried.

‘The winds work in strange ways,’ was all Luther could reply with.

‘Come. Let us speak with Chandar,’ Raemande insisted. ‘It has been far too long since I have seen him also.’

The band of men walked down the low hill towards the ruins of the encampment, chatting between themselves. Laughter filled the air and attracted more attention, then as they reached the outer ring of tents they came to an abrupt stop, as an almost ancient figure blocked their way, with knights and other people surrounding him.

Immediately, Raemande, Luther and Garrett dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.

‘My Lord,’ each of them said, in unison, before lifting their heads and smiling at the leader of their order.

‘I see you managed to escape the clutches of our enemy?’ the old man said.

‘Only by the skin of our teeth, Sire’ Luther replied.

Chandar smiled, then stepped forward, holding his arms out towards Raemande. The Prince rose, then hugged his mentor, before stepping back.

‘It has been far too long, my Prince,’ the old man said.

‘Indeed it has, Sire.’

Chandar’s eyes then scanned the group of riders standing behind the Prince and the knights. Drake shifted awkwardly in his saddle while the attention turned briefly toward him.

‘So, you have returned to us!’ Chandar remarked, while staring at the boy who had provided the information necessary for Luther’s mission to succeed.

‘I have, Sire. If you’ll have me?’

The old man smiled, then glanced towards Luther.

‘Is he worth keeping?’ Chandar asked, while turning to Luther, which caused Raemande to chuckle quietly.

‘He has earned his place, Sire,’ Luther answered.

Drake straightened a little.

Chandar studied the boy for a moment. Then he nodded once.

‘You have the gratitude of the realm, my lad.’

Drake looked as though he had no idea what to say to that.

Chandar turned again to Raemande.

‘The valley is yours, my Prince. Our numbers are not as great as they once were, but many of those knights who are left have already answered the call, and more arrive each day. We may not have an army, but we have the side of the righteous behind us. The Order will rise again.’

Raemande looked out across the growing camp. For perhaps the first time since leaving Carronne, a faint spark of hope appeared in his expression.

‘Then perhaps the reign of Septimus will not last forever after all?’

Chandar’s hand rested upon the pommel of the ancient sword at his side. The Dragonstone set into its hilt glowed faintly in the afternoon light.

‘I hope that it will not,’ the old knight said quietly. ‘But we are still at a great disadvantage. If the battle raged today, then I would fear for the future of the Order.’

‘So, tomorrow it shall be then,’ Luther answered, before glancing toward the distant mountain pass and the ridges that surrounded Highshaw, where the road disappeared into shadow.

Septimus would come eventually. He always did. Perhaps on another day then, they would be ready.

Around them, the banners of the gathering knights stirred in the wind above Highshaw. The rebellion had yet to begin. But everyone gathered there knew that it would only be a matter of time.

To be continued . . .