The Prince Problem, Episode 2

In which our hero discovers the perils of pondering too profoundly…

Read Episode 1 here

—2—

Some things in this world simply cannot be understood by the mere mortal minds of men. Why does the capriciousness of the gods look just like the capriciousness of kings? Why do politicians lie? Why would a man not marry a sweet, beautiful, and fabulously wealthy woman? Women, on the other hand, seem to always understand. It’s enough to make one wonder if their femininity imbues them with an immortality out of the reach of those of the masculine gender.

When I accepted this job, I had not pondered the latter question. I had merely responded to my raging emotions at the affront of Queen Meredith hiring Gremnik, my archnemesis. Now that my compatriots and I had been walking for half a day, I pondered. Neither Roderick nor Ne’er-Be-Hung Nick nor myself could provide any answers for the questions we had mulled and ruminated. The wit of Lady Belinda, on the other hand, was displayed for all.

“Why do you question the gods’ capriciousness when I am saddled with three imbeciles asking silly questions?” We winced and ducked. She marched in front of us gesticulating with wild waves of her cutlass. As I have often said, the only thing more dangerous than an angry woman is an angry woman wielding a sword. Especially a woman whose prowess with a weapon is eclipsed only by yours truly.

I suppose I should elucidate for the faithful readers of my exploits. When traversing highways and byways on a quest to rescue a damsel in distress, the truly legendary knight expects to encounter danger, destruction, and death. One’s path always treads through dark demon-infested forests or dim, desolate ravines. Peril is one’s constant companion. The rewards of overcoming said peril are glory, gold, and, when one is truly legendary, the heart of said girl.

What my compatriots and I soon discovered is, however, there is a reason rescuing dudes in distress is an unprofitable business. Nary a single monster crawled out of the ground to attack us. Nor did a legion of bandits leap to ambush us. The forest proved to be a lovely woodland and the ravine a charming valley. The highways and byways traveled in a rather straight and wide path. Even now, the capacious road we marched along gently wound through fields of daisies and buttercups towards Prince Jack’s pearly white castle in the distance. While Lady Belinda might have secretly had hopes of winning the prince’s heart, Roddy, Nick and myself were left to ponder what hope of gold and glory awaited us when faced with such paucity of peril.

Lady Belinda suddenly wheeled and we skidded, as the tip of her steely cutlass was mere inches from our necks.

“I ask you again. Why ask such silly questions? Is this or isn’t this a straightforward rescue? Is there or is there not a tidy pile of gold awaiting us?”

We all sighed heavily. (At least we would have liked to, but a truly heavy sigh would have resulted in the pricking of my Adam’s apple, since her cutlass’s tip was closest to my neck. As it was, our heavy sighs were little more than involuntary gasps. Highly embarrassing for a knight of my stature!)

“There’s not much glory in this jaunt,” grumbled Roderick gloomily.

“All too true,” muttered Ne’er-be-Hung Nick, his voice bereft of its usual jollity. Even Lady Belinda appeared startled by his bereftness. Her cutlass swung away from my neck and settled beneath Nick’s.

“What do you mean?” she asked very slowly. As in the type of slowly where each word is rather long and uncomfortable gaps hang silently between each syllable.

No doubt I should expound. In my four years in the rescuing business, I have faced such spoken gaps seven times. Each previous instance has preceded a most unfortunate turn of events due to a most unfortunate misunderstanding of my intentions. If one recalls my warning about the fragility of oversized egos, one should understand why our lives hung precariously. I needed to measure my response most carefully.

“Lady Belinda, oh most mighty warrior of long legs, golden tresses, and cigarillos, my compatriots speak of the ease of our road and the lack of danger thus faced. In no way is this a comment of a negative nature on the adroitness of your swordplay or the elegance of your efforts to rescue Prince Jack. It is simply that our reputation relies on overcoming menace and peril whilst rescuing damsels in distress.”

“And there’s no glory in rescuing a dude in distress,” groused Roderick more gloomily than ever.

For one more moment, her cutlass’s tip dangled dangerously before she sighed and sheathed her sword.

“Men and their infantile need for glory,” she snarled, although there were no teeth behind her bluster. She waved her arms. “Do you think it’s easy being a woman warrior? All anyone sees are my long legs and golden tresses! Never a word about my moxie or muscles! I’ve tried to get on Monday Night Gladiators for three years, but have you seen the armor they want a woman to wear? ‘More cleavage, dearie,’ they say salaciously. ‘Bare that midriff! Show off those legs!’ You boys get offered nice shiny armor! All I get is more flesh, flesh, and flesh!!”

That was when the geyser spouted. Most gents would attribute the flow of tears to her feminine nature. They would be idiots. Lesson #2 about big egos: when they break, expect a burst of bawling, bewailing, and blubbering. Gender is irrelevant. Lesson #3: Look anywhere other than at the one whose oversized ego has just breached, especially up at the sky or down at the ground, which will allow one to not meet your compatriots’ eyes. Whistling a soundless tune also helps one pretend one is not noticing the lamentations. After a few minutes of ignorance, the ego will patch itself, sniffle twice, and announce it’s time to move on.

Lady Belinda sniffled three times (it was a serious breakage of ego) then announced, “What are you idiots standing around for? We’ve got an easy road to travel and a prince to rescue!”

I wish the gods in their wisdom had granted me a moment to warn Lady Belinda to never utter such a phrase, not when one is a valiant adventurer! Allow this allocution to be a lesson for all young aspiring adventurers: Never utter any utterance to which the phrase “Famous Last Words” might be applied!

Unfortunately, the gods chose this moment to unleash their capriciousness.

Continue to Episode 3

The Prince Problem, Episode 1

In which our hero philosophizes about wealth, beauty, and heavily cowled figures…

—1—

The Blackmore Tavern is not the world’s safest place. However, when one has just won a major battle against one’s greatest nemesis, you would think one had earned a single night of celebration with one’s compatriots, wouldn’t you? Alas, nothing could be further from the truth.

The long wooden tables in the Blackmore were surprisingly vacant that fateful night. No flying fists or bottles breaking atop heads. No shouting into the ears of one’s companion to be heard. One could even see clearly through the perpetually twisting smoke that dwelt in the tavern like a pet snake. Just the four of us, legs draped over benches while the bartender flirted with the bored waitress. Understandable, considering it’s Monday Night Gladiators at the local amphitheater and, for most locals, some good old-fashioned face pounding and bloodshed is always preferable to a mug of beer and casual conversation.

I’ve often wondered how my trusty Craftsman™ broadsword¹ and I would fare on MNG. To hear the clamor of the crowd as I flick my wrist so the spotlights glint on the steel as I deftly parry, dodge, spin, and thrust.

“Ho!” I would cry while ducking beneath a futile swing from my opponent. “Ha ha!” I would shout as I placed my boot upon my fellow gladiator’s chest in triumph while the audience roared with approval.

“Whatcha carving there, Sir Roger?” asked Lady Belinda, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice rattled like gravel, her ever-present cigarillo bobbing in the corner of her mouth as she spoke and a wreath of smoke encircling her long golden tresses. No doubt she was once more disappointed my attention was not focused solely on her. My long-legged, blond-haired fellow warrior’s ego was broader than even my trusty Craftsman™ broadsword—and certainly not as well tempered! One must always be careful near an ego more immense than one’s own. I’ve learned that the hard way!

When I was a young lad and had yet to dedicate myself to mastering the arts of swordplay and princess rescuing, my ego was a small thing. As such, any wounding caused little more than a bruise. As a legendary knight, however, I had the unfortunate experience of discovering how easily my ego could be punctured.

I realize it is early in my tale but allow me to wax philosophical for a moment. You see, I have learned an ego’s skin does not grow more thick or tough as it expands; on the contrary, it grows more thin and brittle. However, adding a compatriot whose ego is larger and thus more fragile than my own is like an extra layer of armor, as if their failure cushions my own. That said, she is, admittedly, rather adept with her cutlass.

“Princess Mary’s initials, no doubt,” moaned Roderick, my short-legged, dour-faced compatriot wizard. Roddy is a runt of a man whose morosity is as sullen as a bard’s tragic lament for a lost love. I’d hate to offend anyone of smaller stature, but he really is a runt, by which I mean he’s not just tiny, but acts as if his lack of height and breadth is a curse of the gods to be worn like a medal he didn’t deserve. On the other hand, he is damn good with counter curses, likely because when he speaks, his voice is as sour and pungent to one’s ears as durian fruit is to one’s delicate sense of smell.

“Ahh, Princess Mary…” sighed Ne’er-Be-Hung Nick, my third compatriot. A rather round and rotund ranger, he is best known for his archery skills. His arrows can split an apple sitting atop the head of any citizen 4 out of 5 shots. Alas, that missed fifth shot has landed him in local dungeons 27 times (of which he was led to the gallows 13 times). However, he has sweet talked his way out of local dungeons 14 times, cajoled an escape from the hangman 10 times, and wheedled out of the noose 3 times. The first 24 are understandable: Nick is as jovial as Roddy is morose, his jollity so infectious that crowds have booed the hangman and cheered his release. How he escaped the noose when the trapdoor opened are three tales well worth the telling; alas, there is neither time nor space to tell those sagas.

By now, you may have noticed the prominent mention of Princess Mary. She is the latest in a long line of princesses whose likenesses are sold by spurious vendors to young lads in village market squares. Whether oils, sketches, or weavings, they all portray an impossibly lovely young lass whose beauty and wealth promise a life of ease and happiness. If only those young lads would listen to me, a strapping knight armed with a trusty Craftsman™ broadsword who has learned that true love, no matter how many princesses one rescues, is as unlikely to be found as fish in the desert.

Ne’er-Be-Hung Nick wrapped a comradely arm about my shoulder. “Y’know, Roger buddy, legend says she’s turned down more than a thousand suitors already.”

“That just means she’s filthy rich, you moron,” sneered Lady Belinda. I was certain I detected a hint of jealousy in her voice.

“Are you sure that’s all?” muttered Roderick. “I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice.”

“Hmpf!” snorted Lady Belinda, throwing her long golden tresses back over her shoulder. Surely, she would have been a great actress. “Everyone knows a princess’s oils are doctored. There’s no way she’s that beautiful! And certainly not sweet or wholesome! She’s royalty!”

“Almost as bad as a politician,” grumbled Roderick barely over his breath.

Nick squeezed my shoulder. “Wait a moment…” he uttered. “Don’t tell me you have a crush on her?”

I was spared an embarrassing response as the front door swung open with a loud bang. We all swiveled to see who could possibly be missing MNG.

An indistinct figure shrouded in a thick black cowled robe crept furtively into The Blackmore. A futile effort considering the circumstances. The figure’s head, its face hidden in the hood’s shadows, glanced back over its shoulder as if to make certain no one was following, then slinked towards our table, the hem of its dark robe dragging dust across the wooden planks.

My hand naturally clenched the pommel of my trusty Craftsman™ broadsword as it always did when approached by a heavily cowled figure. Especially when I knew said figure was my boss.

I have never understood why spies (or bosses) feel the need to wear voluminous robes or other cumbersome materials to disguise their features when one can nattily dress in studded black leather and toss a tastefully gold-inlaid cloak over one’s shoulder as I always do when carousing in a tavern. (If one hasn’t seen me in my shiny virile armor such as I wore to defeat my greatest nemesis earlier that day, just wait!)

“Wdlsehr sxrhey azaksldf…” spoke a badly muffled sound from deep within my boss’s cowl as he attempted to join us at the table. Sitting was a cumbersome process and he had to readjust his robes six times before he could finally perch on the bench well enough that his robe wouldn’t strangle him.

“Huh?” my compatriots and myself all uttered together.

“Rghsergszz!”

I think that was meant to be a very naughty word not worthy of repetition here, but that’s what happens when one wears a cowl to business meetings.

My boss edged back his cowl until his lips and the tip of his rather bulbous nose could be seen, although his eyes remained hidden in shadows. Not being able to watch your boss’s eyes is worse than not seeing a politician’s eyes. At least with the latter, one already know they’re not telling one the truth.

The waitress materialized next to him and proffered him a tankard of Blackmore Beer, which he promptly quaffed

“Once upon a time,” my boss suddenly began after wiping the froth from his lips, “There was a Prince who did not want to marry the world’s most beautiful Princess. His very decent and friendly Stepmother tried her darndest to convince him to accept the sweet Princess’s hand, but alas, he fled to the nearest Mercenaries Inc. office begging us to protect him.”

(Side note: I have worked for MI since graduating from Knights Finishing College four years ago. I heartily recommend them for all one’s plundering needs. If one has a princess or other damsel who needs rescuing, please ask for me by name. My prices are reasonable and my success rating is ‘Excellent’.)

“Yeah, yeah,” said Lady Belinda impatiently, “Get to the point old man. We have some serious drinking to get to.”

While I was glad she said that, since he is often extremely long-winded, any youngsters reading this should be forewarned never to speak like that to one’s boss without some form of blackmail material in hand. Particularly when one’s boss is a Class 1A-rated assassin.

Fortunately for Lady Belinda, my boss merely rolled his eyes. At least, I assume that’s what he did. In actuality, his cowl rolled. His eyes remained buried in shadow, leaving me to wonder what he’s hiding in those shadows. Disfigurement? Scars? An enormous wart?

“I have a job for you, Sir Roger,” he said, bringing an end to my wonderment. “And for the rest of your lot, I suppose.”

“Cool!” ooohed Ne’er-Be-Hung Nick. “Will it be dangerous? Does it involve intrigue? Mayhem? Murder?”

“Well, uhm, yes, maybe a bit. Well, not the murder part. Hopefully not, anyways. The client would be most put out.” My boss leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Your mission, Sir Roger, should you choose to accept it, involves this prince and this princess, as well as the prince’s stepmother.” From deep within the voluminous folds of his robe, my boss produced three oils: a rather suave princeling with slick dark hair, thin beard, and even thinner mustache; an impossibly beautiful princess with blond tresses and innocent blue eyes; and a lovely dark-haired older woman with pale skin and full red lips.

“Princess Mary!” blurted my compatriots as the princess’s oil settled on the table. I glanced more closely. It was indeed the young woman I’d been daydreaming about prior to my boss’s entrance. My fingers absently traced the carving I had just etched into the table. I glanced down and groaned. “PM” was indeed freshly chiseled. I coughed.

“Ehm,” I managed to utter. “Ehm, I suppose you want us to rescue the damsel in distress?”

“In distress, yes,” my boss said. “Damsel, no.”

“Then what’s the point of the wicked stepmother?”

“Well, uhm, she’s not actually that wicked. Matter of fact, she’s rather good.”

My compatriots and I all stared at each other.

“What are you on?” murmured Roderick glumly. I winced. Sometimes, his voice is more sour than a mouthful of lemons.

My boss leaned back and seemed to shrink into his voluminous robe. I am certain—had we been able to see his face—that his face would be multiple shades of crimson.

“The prince is in distress. His very decent stepmother, who clearly only wants the best for him, offered his hand in marriage to Princess Mary, who accepted.”

“What?” we all cried as my heart sank with a rather loud thud on the table. I heard similar thumps from my fellows’ hearts. It seems we all rather fancied rescuing the lovely princess and thus winning her heart.

“Why, then, is the prince in distress?” barked Lady Belinda rather sharply through teeth so gritted her cigarillo nearly snapped in two. “Is he worried his wedding attire might not be as natty as Sir Roger’s?”

I clenched both fists very tightly then gripped the table’s edge. The sarcasm in her voice dripped more thickly than molasses. That woman has absolutely no fashion sense at all!

“No, no, no,” answered my boss. “It’s nothing so simple. Prince Jack does not wish to marry Princess Mary at all and has hired us to free him from his very decent stepmother’s clutches. But be forewarned: Queen Meredith, his stepmother, has hired Gremnik to make certain the prince arrives at the wedding, which is set for this coming Saturday.”

All remaining celebratory air escaped my lungs, punched as I was by the proverbial hammer. My archnemesis had been hired instead of me? I was left with no option.

“When do we leave?”
1 In case one is wondering why I’m not currently a frog, this is a prequel, and hopefully not as disastrous as a certain prequel by G. Lucas. Please read about my future exploits here or here)

Continue on to Episode 2!

Sir Roger Returns! And a New Book is Coming…

I’m pleased to announce I’ll be publishing my new book, The Blood of the Dragon exclusively on Amazon Kindle in January. This is the first book in a new series featuring Miguel Martinez, a mixed-race teenager in Tucson, and Wu Zhao, a dragon in Faery.

Weird things have been happening to Miguel lately. Is it merely puberty or something more? Meanwhile, Wu Zhao and her brothers are uncovering secrets that will change the fate of not only the dragons, but of everyone who dwells on Faery.

So how does a teenage boy in Tucson relate to a dragon on Faery? Well, that’s all part of the mystery!

The artwork is done, as can be seen above. Obviously, the title and my name need to be added, and a far better scan of the original watercolor will be done, but here it is! If you like her work, be sure to visit Alyce Wolf’s website to see more! (Click on the Store link to see her other art.)

As for Sir Roger, well, Episodes 1 & 2 of a new short story, The Prince Problem, are finished and the remaining episodes sketched out. In it, Sir Roger, his trusty Craftsman™ broadsword in hand, will once more parry, dodge, spin, and thrust whilst pondering the great questions of our age such as the capriciousness of the gods and the wiles of the feminine gender. I’ll post Episode 1 tomorrow.