Prince of Dragons

Chapter 41 - Luck

A/N: Yes, Prince of Dragons still exists, and yes, I've taken too long to update it. My apologies. I hope I'll be able to update the next chapter sooner; as I recall I explained in a message I sent to my followers, I've been through a rather large change in my life, so for a while, my focus hasn't been on Wattpad. I hope you'll forgive me for the delay.

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Enorwin and Arwund had left the cavern hall as quickly as possible; they'd snuck past the rocky mountainside away from the earl's camp, hiding in every small bit of shadow they could find. At some point, they'd found a gap in the rocks.

"If I hide in here," Arwund said quietly, "do you think you could get me some new clothes? My fire has scorched these."

It was true: Arwund's clothing had been reduced to rags. There were black scorch marks all over them.

"I'll try," Enorwin said.

Arwund smiled at him. "Thanks."

Enorwin nodded, then turned around and got moving. There was no time to waste.

He followed the path back to the cave entrance, then began to walk down the slope to the army camp in the valley.

The images of the battle whirled through his mind. The fighting. The bloodshed. The slaughter. He saw his fellow soldiers' deaths, he saw Servants being slain, he saw his poor horse's death.

And then he saw his victim.

He recalled every detail of it. How he'd brought his sword down on her, almost subconsciously. It was the same attack he'd practiced in master Wilnasson's lessons time and time again, the same dull and tedious movement. It had become a routine, an automatic reaction. And this time, it had killed someone.

He'd killed someone.

Why did it bother him this much? He'd expected this would happen at some point, accepted it as a self-evident part of being a knight. Knights fought. That was the plain and simple truth.

But it was funny, he suddenly noticed, that growing up, he'd heard so much about giving your life for your king, your country and your earldom, yet so little about taking lives for those.

And now, there was blood on his hands.

He knew one thing: he'd sleep badly for the nights to come.

As he approached the encampment, medics and soldiers hurried past him, carrying the wounded, the dead and the dying on stretchers. Their moaning was unbearable. Their injuries were gruesome: some were bleeding from deep cuts, others had lost body parts or even entire limbs. There were burns, too, severe burns. Was this really what people were capable of doing to one another?

Part of him wanted to scream, but at the same time, he felt numb. It was just... too much.

He passed the first tents of the army camp. Just try and focus on Arwund now, he told himself. You'll have plenty of time to think later on.

The thought didn't take away the sick feeling that had nestled in his stomach.

He found the tent with spare supplies. There was clothing there, too: everything from tunics to gambesons. He grabbed a tunic and a pair of trousers, then began to look for a warm cloak.

Suddenly, behind his back, he heard a soldier say, "My lord."

He quickly put the clothing on a shelf. My lord. It was a long time since anyone had called him that.

Turning around, he asked, "What is it?"

"His... Lordship requests your presence," the soldier explained. He looked around a bit nervously. "Or, well, ordered your presence, really."