The Sleeping Beauty

Joran - Prince of the People

Preparing for war. He had never understood that phrase when his tutors had used it during protocol lessons. Then again, according to Harkon, he was not as other young men were – picking up sticks and playing at mock battles. He did not see such things as play. Not when his father had placed his tiny hand upon the Royal sword mere moments after his birth, nor when his training had began the instant he could walk. Sword-play was anything but; and yet, here he was, preparing for war.

The armour felt different, which made no sense. He had trained in it every day at his father’s insistence. The rulers of Kilmesh prided themselves on their martial abilities and no son of Kilmesh would be found lacking. The Prince must know and be the best… He tried shrugging as Milet, his page, tightened buckles and adjusted straps, but it did not settle the unease building in him, or adjust the once comfortable armour back to its easy fit.

“They are waiting for you, Your Highness.” Joran’s head shot up and met the eyes of Harkon, the head of his personal Guard, and someone he had thought was his friend. He grimaced as Harkon’s eyes lowered under his gaze. Was it really yesterday that he had stepped up, taken the sword from his Father’s hand and been made Crown Prince? Was it really just one night ago that this man would have hailed him as Joran and laughed at any Lordaties Joran may have tried?

“My helm, Milet,” Joran said, hiding the flood of pain and disappointment that filled his mouth; tainted copper, like the taste of blood.

Milet knelt on one knee, holding the helm within Joran’s reach, his eyes downcast in supplication and Joran fought down the urge to kick the child. He wanted no reverence. He was not worthy of it. There! He had pinpointed his unease. How dare he ride before an army, claiming ownership of this land, when somewhere, some-when, Illandra still laid ensorcelled?

He strode from his arming pavilion to mount his horse, stripped of any fancy trappings. A grim smile graced his face; at least his orders were being carried out, no matter how unorthodox. His father had released the title of Warlord to him; he was now the commander of Kilmesh’s armies until Joran himself chose to pass them on to another. A puzzling move made by his father, a man who hated any scrap of power out of his own hands. The sick feeling of dread was added to the confusion and unease already reducing his stomach to a whirling mess. He had eaten that morning. Milet, had coerced him into eating dry oatcakes layered in honey. He wished he had not but in the face of Milet’s returned cheerful bullying he had not been able to refuse.

Riding forward through the ranks Joran nodded from side to side, making a point to meet the eyes of each company’s captain before they bowed formally. It took only moments to make his way through Kilmesh’s army, their kingdom was small, relying more on the mountains and the sea for protection, than might. At least they had in the past. The arrival of the Rolmeer Dynasty had changed that. Each man standing in their ranks, be he professional soldier or peasant conscript, knew well the shape of the weapon they held and how to use it. In accordance to a law enforced by the first Hyperion of Kilmesh over three hundred years ago, every man in the kingdom was taught how to protect themselves and the realm.

Finally he reached the front of his forces and Joran stared out beyond the pastured field to the mass of bodies on the other side. The mountains, a sinister backdrop as the sun glinted off their weapons.

“What happens now?” Joran asked himself, sitting astride his horse and raised high above the heads of the lower orders. He was not to know that his men took heart seeing their Prince sitting so tall and seemingly unafraid above them. He should not be afraid, he reminded himself; he had been trained for this after all.

“Tell that to my stomach.” Joran murmured sourly and jammed his helm, un-adorned of showy plumes, onto his head. His father expected it of him, had stood tall on the banner festooned dais, not even a day past, and loudly proclaimed him the first of his sons and his chosen. The fact that Hyperion had never been able to father another son on any other woman, and Joran had more half sisters than he could count, was ignored. Yet, his father had still chosen him out other possible, if distant, choices. His Father had proclaimed him Crown Prince and thus it was his duty to take the royal sword, symbol of Warlord, and protect the realm.