Chapter 3

Voldi slowly rose, and observed, as had several of the others, that the blade of Deran’s dagger flashed brightly in the firelight.

‘You’re not intending to fight me with steel, I hope!’ he said sharply. A concerted murmur of disapproval instantly backed him up. It was a shameful abuse of royal privilege. Every youth in the party knew the Prince was not vulnerable to any injury. It would be worth any man’s liberty, if not his life, to hurt this boy.

Bewildered by his predicament Voldi stood with his thumbs under his belt, making no move to defend himself. Young Deran, crouching, advanced with short steps.

‘You’d better draw, Voldi,’ he growled, ‘or admit you’re a coward.’

Apparently it was the wrong word even for the King’s son to use. Voldi lunged forward, drove his right elbow into the Prince’s midriff, clutched the wildly flailing forearm in a vice-like grip, twisted the dagger out of Deran’s hand, and tossed it into the fire. Panting with rage, the Prince again hurled himself at Voldi who, disregarding the impotent fists, slapped the youngster full in the face.

‘You’ll pay for that!’ squeaked Deran.

Gentle if disgusted hands led the infuriated Prince to his tent for repairs to his royal pride and bleeding lips. Voldi resumed a seat on the ground, a little way apart from the others, and sat with bent head and slumped shoulders.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled dejectedly, shaking his head.

It was a critical moment for all of them. No one cared to risk being quoted as having said, ‘Good work, Voldi! Just what he deserved! What else could you have done?’ At length Museph scrambled to his feet, threw another pine stick on the fire, dusted his hands; and, sauntering over to Voldi, companionably sat down beside him. Young Raboth, the lean, hawk-nosed nephew of Councillor Dumah, crossed from the other side of the silent circle, made a big business of poking the fire; and, as he passed Voldi, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The rest of them breathed more freely and exchanged grins. Deran did not reappear that night, and left for home early the next morning.

Voldi made no mention of the unpleasant affair at home, but for many days he waited, in considerable trepidation, a summons to present himself at the King’s encampment; for it seemed almost certain that Deran would have made a bad report of the incident. But apparently the episode was to be overlooked. Either the Prince had decided to hold his tongue or the King, having heard his son’s story, had drawn his own conclusions and had thought it prudent to let the matter drop.

But the true story unquestionably had got to the ears of the Council; for a week later, Voldi was invited to spend the day with his revered Grandfather Mishma. He went with anxiety pounding in his heart, for he was devoted to the old man and would be grieved at his displeasure. But it turned out to be a happy visit. Nothing was said about the unfortunate incident in the woods. When Voldi left for home, Mishma followed him out to the paddock and ceremoniously presented him with a beautiful, high-spirited, black gelding.