“I was under the impression that we were to meet with Prince Faran,” Humboldt suggested, not angry or aggravated, but disappointed. Faran was an old friend and in addition to the trade negotiation, he was looking forward to seeing his friend.

“He sends his apologies, but there are other matters to which he must attend.” The response seemed rehearsed to Paul and he heightened his alertness to sounds and movement around them. He was not sure if the prince detected the same thing, but he suspected he had.

“I will wait. Faran is an old friend, and he would not miss an opportunity to see me.”

“As you wish.”

Paul heard the ‘thud’ of a bowstring and tackled Prince Humboldt to the ground, drawing his own bow as he threw off his cloak. Before ten seconds had passed, he had fired three arrows, killing one assailant and wounding another. He spotted an archer as he stood over the prince and returned fire, striking him with the second missile.

The men of the entourage closed in around them and her shot an arrow into the jugular of one before drawing his dagger to deal with the other three. Paul glanced back at the prince before engaging and noticed an arrow protruding from his bicep, but no other graver wounds.

With a primal shout, Paul threw himself at his enemies and began the sortie. The adults, taken aback by this attack from one little more than a child, were caught off-guard. He darted from side to side, parrying blow after blow until one, then another fell to his blade. The second fell with Paul’s dagger buried deep in his abdomen, so he abandoned it instead of trying to wrestle it out of the wound, and faced his final opponent unarmed. He quickly releived the man of his bearded axe and turned without hesitation, using the same axe to remove the left arm at the elbow, then separated his head from his shoulders.

The prince was struggling to his feet as Paul dispatched their last assailant and Paul assisted him in breaking off the ends of the arrow. “We need to find Faran,” the prince said.

“Where do we begin?”

“General Thompson should have him safe if he still lives. Let us start there.” He explained this through gritted teeth as Paul tore off a strip of cloth from his cloak and stabilized the arrow, then bound the wound in order that the prince did not lose too much blood.

They quickly began their journey toward the center of the city which they had not yet seen, having been stopped by the entourage of ruffians. The houses became more extravagantly as they closed on the houses of Faran and the General, and they noticed a distinct lack of civilian movement in the streets. “Take this,” Humboldt said as he drew a small book from his inside pocket, “I don’t want to get blood on it.” Paul took the minuscule Bible printed in Old English, a language he was just beginning to understand, and hid it within the folds of his cloak. He was deeply honored to be entrusted with such a burden and just the act of carrying it made him stand a little bit taller.

As the tapestry of the setting sun rose up in the west, they arrived at Faran’s dwelling. The door was battered down and hung off its hinges, open to the world. They entered. Paul was unwilling to either leave the prince without, or to bring him inside where there may be more danger, but the prince insisted on accompanying him in.

The house was empty, but ransacked; for what, they knew not. Nearby, however, they found the house of General Thompson as it was lit like a menorah during the last days of Hanukkah. Paul lifted the brass knocker, but before it fell, the door was pulled open from within and the knicker clattered uselessly against the wood.

“Come in,” Thompson said in hushed, hurried tone, “before anyone else sees you.” He ushered them inside and swiftly closed the door.

Prince Humboldt was whisked away to another room where his wound was seen to, and Paul was taken to another room and relieved of his armaments. “What is the meaning of this,” he demanded.

“No precaution is too much in a time such as this,” the general explained, “though you defended your prince valiantly. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Paul said with more than a hint of pride.

“We had heard of Humboldt’s elite soldier idea, but had no idea it was so far underway. How long have you been training?”

“Seven years.”

“Goddamn,” one of the other soldiers muttered under his breath, “I’ve not been training that long.”

Paul looked over at him with a devilish grin spread across his face, “Want me to train you?”

“Maybe.”

“Focus, men,” Thompson cut in, “Dalton, go get his weapons. There is no doubt that they saw you arrive, and I would like all the help I can get to defend my, and your, Princes.” Dalton dashed from the room and returned presently with Paul’s weapons, which Paul girded quickly.

“I will need more arrows,” he requested of the general.

“Done,” the general gestured at another man, who ran from the room, “anything else you require?”

“A vantage point.”

“Follow me.” They walked up the stairs, past the medic’s room where Paul could hear Prince Humboldt crying out in pain as his injury was cleaned and dressed.

It was a clear, cool night and the moon gave light to the city, bathing the streets in a blue-white hue. Paul stood on the balcony over the entrance with his bow ready and an arrow resting on the string. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see clearly enough to spot any approaching hostile person. A York archer joined him after a few minutes, and they sat in silence, watching.

Shouts alerted them of activity on the next street as Faran’s guards clashed with approaching forces. The sound of combat continued for several minutes, and as it died down, they spotted combatants turning the corner, fighting as they either retreated or advanced. Paul and his counterpart squinted in attempt to ascertain where the allegiance of each fighter belonged as they approached.

As they got closer, the second archer began to recognize the insignia of the men and pointed out the distinguishing marks to Paul. Almost as one, they began to fire carefully aimed arrows among the group, eliminating the larger force of invaders as they had openings to shoot without harming the friendly troops, but it was in vain. Too many hostile targets appeared for the few archers to handle and soon, there was a strong battering on the door below. Paul abandoned the balcony and raced back down to the main entrance in time to join the sortie that was beginning in the hallway. The blood inside the house complimented that which flowed freely in the streets, turning the gutters red as the brave valiantly defended their rulers from this unprovoked attack.

Humboldt needed not question Paul’s effectiveness as a fighter from that point as he proved himself in the battle. The fighting continued throughout the house for several hours, but it never reached the room which held the Princes Humboldt and Faran.