Draka fed Vigora the last of the pears in the saddle bag while he looked over everything one last time. He wanted to kick, he wanted to scream, he wanted to do something. Anything. That bastard! That two faced monster! After what he had already done to help these people and he turned them against him. He knew what this meant. At least he understood that. He needed to go. That was all he had left. This wasn’t meant for him.

  Whatever you expected of me, Lord, he thought as he fisted the last of the supplies he needed for the trip back to Talkro into his pack, I can’t do it. I’m not that kind of man. This is beyond me. I’m not smart enough. Shove. Not wise enough. Shove. Not faithful enough. Tug and buckle.

  He gritted his teeth. How could he be so stupid to think everyone would just welcome him as their prince? He was no messiah, no king, and certainly not a nobleman. He always hated those stuffy courts and their double edged conversations, even when he could speak. Writing things down, not being able to shout and roar, to command properly, he wanted to stuff the pointy ends of every weapon he could get his hands on into each of them. Especially the Baron. If only he could. He may not be a murderer—he threw the newly filled saddle bag over his shoulder to see if it weighed close to the same—but he certainly wanted to be one now.

  “I knew you were predictable but this is getting ridiculous,” Nina said from the stall gate. She had on a long cloak with a hood that had frizzed her red hair when she brought it down.

  Vigora bit at her with a loud clocking of teeth.

  Nina slapped Vigora hard across her nostrils and wagged a finger at her, “Next time, I’ll break your teeth. Best believe you me, rabbit.”

  Draka froze, eyes shooting wide.

  Vigora looked from him to her with ears upright as if asking him what he was going to do about that. Then one ear went sideways at his shocked expression. She huffed and tried to turn around only to find that there wasn’t enough room and kicked the wall for good measure.

  “I didn’t think you were the type of Prince to run,” Nina turned her glare on him and crossed her arms. “I warned you. You did nothing. You gave him this. I told you he would still use it against you. Now, he has the whole city ready to put you in her place.”

  Draka rolled his eyes at her and set the saddle bags down to check that the bundle of his armor was tight enough to transport. Tell me something I don’t know.

  “So, that’s it. You’re just going to let him win? Like a coward?”

  Draka started for her, stopping just short with arms shooting sideways. He looked about him.

  What else can he do? Nothing. Food is coming and it will be him the people will love for it. That’s fine for him. Baron wants his war, Draka turned from her with a shake of his head and a dismissive wave, that’s fine by him. Let the city fall to whatever is coming. He saved the Headmistress from being beheaded, but no one will ever know that or care to listen. He’ll be the one who feeds them, but no one will ever know that or believe who tells them otherwise. It didn’t matter. He did what he could. He was done with playing a game that was reminding him why he wanted to live in a small village in the first place.

  Nina stepped into him, bumping her chest against him hard enough that he nearly fell backward. “Hey! I’m your ally! I risked my life to help you already. You have no idea what either of them will do to me. You pallies never ask what happens when the dungeons get filled with conspirators against the Church, yet you have no qualms in filling them! You’re such a child.”

  Draka regained his balance and stared her down. Today is not the day to test him. The one sin that he has repeatedly had to ask for forgiveness for is his temper. And he’s way too close to losing it for some little girl to test him on it.

  “You’re a soldier, aren’t you?” Nina didn’t back down even though he was towering over her with a puffed chest and a hand on the handle of his sword to steady his hand from doing what his temper was drumming his fists to do. “Fought battles, right? Led armies? Good. You. Are. At. War. Start acting like it.”

  Draka blinked at her through his angry scowl.

  “And you’re losing on all sides. You think that you can just leave? Even if that were an option—even if—you wouldn’t last a month. That girl you sent the letter to…”

  Don’t you dare, Draka tilted his head with fury in his eyes as warning.

  “What do you think will happen to her? Or her mother? Oh, don’t give me that look. I showed you the passageways, you know you’re being watched and from where. And I’m good at what I do. Now, straighten up soldier. You think they will last a minute without you? You think they won’t make sure that everyone who made so much as a supportive cough in your direction will live a week after they kill you?—And they will kill you if you don’t start paying attention!”

  Draka felt himself sink. They would kill Maud and Aurie? Just because he protected them?

  “Now,” Nina saw that he was listening and brushed her hair from her face with a breath, “You’re the Prince. You’re a king if you wanted to be. Maybe you forgot that, but I haven’t, and neither has the Cardinal or the Baron. Whoever gave you the title either really loves you—or truly hates you—but it’s yours. This is your kingdom, pally. You’re a plowing Paladin! Or have you forgotten all that while you were getting your ass kicked, too?”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Draka’s glare returned.

  Nina grabbed his shirt with both fists and pulled him toward her, straightening him. He blinked at her. What in the world was she trying to do now? This woman confused him on far too many levels. Just like this place.

  She brushed his shirt as if she were brushing dirt from it. “There, now you look like someone that was chosen by the Almighty to be Prince while getting his ass kicked,” she gave him a flicking browed smile and stepped back. “A Paladin Prince is chosen by God to rule this kingdom. And it is a kingdom. Everyone who steps onto this ground is your subject. They bow to you. Not the other way around. Do you want to be the one to tell the Almighty that He chose wrong or should I?”

  Draka let out a long breath and looked to the sky with rolling eyes and slumping shoulders. He held out his hands at her again.

  Nina chuckled sardonically with a shake of her head. “You want me to hand-feed it to you like you do this rodent?” She motioned to Vigora, who shot her head upright in offense with a grunt.

  Vigora kicked the wall, keeping her glaring pale blue eyes on Nina. Draka rubbed her side. She lowered her head and scraped a hoof.

  “Fine. You’re a Paladin and a Prince, right? Who commands a Paladin?”

  Draka gave her a sideways glance.

  “Exactly. Now, who commands the Cardinal? How about a Baron? You do. Now,” Nina held out her hand, “Give me that bag of a hundred gold. Don’t just stand there, give it to me.”

  Draka narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously.

  She snapped her fingers, keeping her palm out, “I insist. Hand it over.”

  He went to retrieve his pouch from between his armor pieces. His finger snagged on a cloth and he tugged to get the pouch out, pulling a bit of red fabric with it. He pursed his brows at it.

  It felt like his silk shirt, but there was an embroidered hem on it. He blinked at it for a moment, then tossed the pouch to Nina. It had a few pieces more than a hundred in it.

  Nina opened her cloak to tuck it into her knife belt. Draka couldn’t help but notice that there were a lot more than a few knives on that belt. One was nearly the length of a short sword. He had seen another like it, carried by Paladin Enya. Same sort of belt, though it went through her skirt and he only saw how long it was because the skirt wrinkled around its shape on her thigh.

  “I’ll let you know what it's for once I know it’s a success. You have allies. They’re few right now, but there are some allies that I wish I had before I met you, and you have them in droves…” She pointed in the direction of the Cathedral, “over there. You might want to use them. Don’t touch the Baron…yet. If you do, the city will kill you if his own men don’t. I’d steer clear of him. You have at least one good idea, I wouldn’t sleep within the palace grounds if I were you either. But you can’t leave. Not now.”

  She grabbed his collar, filling his head with a mix of Balor and Phillip in flashes that blended together as if they were one and the same even though they were leagues apart and one he was still mourning. Her chin nearly bounced on his chest, but her small stature was nothing in comparison to the look of determination she was giving him, “The Baron has a palace but you have a fortress.”

  Fort Talkro? I’d rather face them while falling off a cliff.

  She must have seen the disbelief in his eyes because she said, through gritted teeth, “You’re a Paladin. That’s a Cathedral. You’re a Prince. He’s a Cardinal.” She searched his eyes, then let out a long sigh before slapping the back of his head, “The Cathedral is a fortress and you’re entitled to garrison it under a banner of war. My God,” she looked up to the sky in frustration, “I’ll practically have to run this kingdom for you! You’re a Grande Prince! You have the same rights as a King, which means…”

  She waited expectantly. Draka shrugged at her.

  Nina tossed her cloak back around her and raised her hood with a growling, “You can reject an insubordinate Cardinal by right! How you survived to old age as a soldier must have been a series of unfortunate MIRACLES! Now,” She held a finger at him, “don’t go anywhere near the Baron or his men and go be a plowing Paladin Prince and take that…” She pointed it to the Cathedral, “Over with the one army no one but God can take from you! And wait for me to contact you. That flag should be flying in this city from the tallest tower. You know, that one!” She pointed again toward the Cathedral.

  Draka gaped. Flag?

  He turned to where she had looked. The fabric he had snagged his finger on. He faced the bundle and gently tugged it from between the armor pieces. His torn silk shirt. Only, not his silk shirt.

  He straightened, letting it unravel in front of him to reveal Maud’s near perfect stitching of his sigil: a tall white cross from a blooming sharply pointed star. Seven points, the number of completion. He beamed.

  It was off center, like a battle flag, in a field of red silk that was hemmed by blue and white ribbons braided together. And it was the right size, nearly as tall as he was and as wide as his arms’ reach. He looked back to Nina but found she had already gone. Her loss. This was magnificent. This was the treat she hid him and he didn’t even know.

  Draka felt it hit him almost as hard as Nina’s slap to the back of his head. This was a Battle Flag. The Battle Flag. Red, like blood, surrounded by the colors of Talkro’s stream and white like the cotton and fruit blossoms. And his cross. The cross he had been given as his sigil on the steps of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, with the star whose points gathered with each campaign he joined against the denizens of hell. Seven points, the most of any Paladin alive. The few who had reached the seventh point were usually given its inscription on their tombs. But for Draka, it was given to him the same day he was given a vow of silence for Philip’s idiocy. Only, he grinned a little sideways, the star was upside down with its center point aimed into the ground instead of following the cross to the sky.

  Vigora sniffed at it, then looked around with her ears folded in sorrow. He rubbed her nose. He missed Maud, too.

  They’ll be back home soon, he decided. Just not yet. And he unbuckled the bundle of armor.