The Bandit Prince: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

With an irritated growl, Thomas knocked on the door to the Prince's chambers. The boy never turned up for his tutoring, often hiding himself away in his chambers. Unfortunately for him, Thomas now was quite used to this trick, and so every Thursday morning, he found himself standing outside the door, calling for the Prince to emerge.

"Damon!" he shouted, knocking on the door again.

There was still no reply. Thomas groaned. This routine never boosted his morale, mainly due to the fact the Prince obviously did not care for his lessons. As much as was possible, Thomas tried to make them as enjoyable, but he struggled to do this whilst sticking to the strict list of subjects the King had set out. He slammed his hand against the door once final time.

"Why must you be so difficult?"

He grasped the door knob and twisted it. To his surprise, the door creaked open. Usually, the Prince locked it, to stop any would-be intruders. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Thomas was half-expecting Damon to leap out and order him to leave, but the room was silent. And empty. He frowned.

"Damon?" he called out.

Silence still, and it hung in the air like a thick, cloying blanket of dust. Thomas stood still for a moment, wondering if the Prince was outside, on the training field, or hunting in the forest. He can't be, he thought, I've asked the guards, the boy hasn't left the castle. Of course, there were other hiding places inside. He left the room and stepped out into the corridor. A guard was standing at the far end.

"How long have you been posted there?" he questioned.

The guard thought for a few moments.

"Since dawn," he replied.

"And the Prince hasn't left, at all?"

"No, and I asked the guard before me, all was quiet on this corridor. The Prince did not so much as open his door."

Thomas inclined his head. Where is he, then? he wondered. Walking over to the window, he looked outside, down towards the stables. The stable-hands looked downright frantic, arguing with each other and the guards. Thomas watched this scene for a moment, and then, hastily thanking the guard, rushed down the corridor. As quickly as he could, he went down the narrow, spiral stairs, down to the castle's exit. Thomas hastened to the stables, where the argument was still in full heat.

"May I enquire into what is happening here?" he asked.

One of the stable hands, a tall boy, turned to him. He wringed his hands nervously.

"The Prince's horse, and his riding equipment. It's gone."

Thomas shook his head.

"No, that can't be. The Prince hasn't left his room once since before dawn," he insisted.

The stable-hand shrugged; he had no business with the Prince, his job was to care for the horses. One going missing was serious, he would get punished no matter if it was a servant's or a Prince's. With a tight-lipped smile, he replied:

"He must have left before that then. Either that, or someone has stole his horse. But equipment too? It's unlikely, no-one would risk their necks like that."

Thomas considered this for a moment. Putting two and two together, he backed away, horrified. He turned to a guard.

"You are quick, no?" he said.

The guard was slim, and he looked as if he was nimble on his feet, despite the heavy armour he wore. Quicker than him anyway. With a slightly confused expression, the guard nodded.

"Good, then go to the King. Tell him this; the Prince is missing."

***

Words churned in the King's mind, every single one hinting at the possibility of his son having run away. He turned round sharply, and rushed up the few steps leading to his throne. With a heavy sigh, he slumped down onto it, gazing at the double doors at the far end of the room. The throne room was a majestic, splendorous place. Sunlight streamed in from the tall windows that were present on every outdoor-facing wall. A red rug, bordered with gold, led from the doors, up the steps and to the throne. The floor was tiled, a rather grand stone pattern layed out just so. Flanking the throne were two statues of winged wolves, the motif on the royal family's crest, the motif that appeared on their soldier's tunics and shields. And then there was the throne itself. It was engraved with scenes from the history of Isria, and two more winged wolves, obviously smaller than the statues, took the role of armrests. On any other day, the King would sit back and just enjoy being in this magnificent place, but his mood was just too dark for any pleasure to be taken in his surroundings. His son had gone missing, probably having ran away. When that slim, young guard had came with the message, the King had been inclined to throw him in the dungeon for such terrible lies. Granted, Damon never seemed to enjoy the royal court. When summoned for an audience, his son never turned up, having to be fetched by a guard. He always was a difficult child, and the King had noticed he never seemed happy whilst in the palace. The King closed his eyes and thought about his last talk with Damon before his disappearance. He had been standing in front of the throne, raven-black hair flopped over his forehead, green eyes staring at him intently. The King had told him he had to start taking his role seriously. Damon had merely replied: It isn't my fault I was born a Prince, I never asked for this. With a heavy sigh, the King considered this carefully. Nevertheless, no matter if the boy wanted to rule the land one day or not, he wanted him found.

"Guards," he bellowed suddenly, a thought occurring to him.

The double doors were flung open, and two men, laden with armour, spears and swords, burst in. Much to the King's disappointment, they were breathing heavily, and both seemed to be perspiring a lot for men hired to stand outside some doors all day. He straightened his posture, composed his face, and glared down at them.

"My King," one of them panted, "What is your need?"

Raising an eyebrow, the King sighed. His guards weren't in the best of forms, but they would suffice for the task at hand. Expectantly, they waited for his order. The King supposed that his call was a welcome break from the dreary routine of the day. Clearing his throat, he ordered;

"Go fetch the Elven Hunters, and fast!"

The guards rushed out the room, as quickly as was possible with their heavy gear. With a loud slam that echoed around the palace, the double doors shut, leaving the King alone with his thoughts. It had been a few months since he had last seen the Elven Hunters, for, although they resided in his palace, they yearned to be in the forest, and would often spend days, and nights, there. Graciously, the King allowed them to do this. Every time they returned, they brought with them game that they had caught. The King took a small amount of these for the palace's food stocks, but the rest he gave to the citizens of the lower town. And why not? Better to give than to see them starve before his own eyes.

"My King!"

Without another second passing, the double doors swung open, and the two guards strode in, accompanied by five men. The King stood up. In perfect unison, five of the men behind the guards knelt.

"Please, arise," the King said, raising a hand.

Immediately, the five men obeyed. They were wearing white tunics, embroieded with a silver thread, and brown leggings. Over this outfit, they wore simple leather armour. On their backs was slung a quiver of arrows and a bow. No matter where they were, the Elven Hunters always carried their weapon of choice. Each arrow was fletched with a falcon feather, and the bows were made out of polished oak wood. The King stood up and addressed them.

"Hunters. You are the best in the kingdom, no?"

There were a few nods from the elves. One of them answered with a yes.

"My son is missing, and I want him found. Please, go and find him, and your rewards will leave you wealthy for life," the King ordered, his voice cracking a little.

The Elven Hunters closed their left fists and held them over their hearts, the sign of a vow. One of them stepped forward, his expression sincere and sympathetic. He was, as any other elf, tall and lithe, but he held a commanding aura around him, one that made him seem so much more present in the room.

"The loss of a child is terrible, be it a prince or a peasant. My King, as speaker for the Elven Hunters, we vow to aid you in your search for your son. We ask no reward, for this is a cause that is fair and just. You have our support, Sire," he said.

The King sighed heavily. He sat down, his eyes locked onto those of the elf. Never before had he felt so indebted to someone. He bowed his head, the ultimate sign of respect a King could give.

"Thank you," he said, words that were not often found on his lips, "And please, find my son."