Two bands of warriors rode as one group away from the Catheldor castle. The rising sun lit their path in golden rays. A bird floated high above, riding the wind’s currents, and cawed a morning tribute.
Prince Quinn rode beside his brother, Arlin. “You are lucky to be here. Father does not believe you belong away from the castle. You are weak willed and could never be a true leader of men. Mother’s pleading convinced him otherwise.”
It had been a long time since insults wounded the young prince. “I’m able to handle myself in a fight. My mettle has been tested on the Ildonians. Father has not yet trusted you to pass the test against our foes. You should be more worried about your own success.”
“I have proven more than enough,” Quinn puffed his chest. “Soon my longsword’s appetite will be satiated on Ildonian blood. No one believes your tales of what happened in Brandeisberg. There is no way your men could have struck down so many foes.”
“We may be young and untested in war, but we know how to bring pain to our enemies. Magic enhanced attacks grant us trickery to land killing blows.”
“That is exactly what I am talking about. You are not focused to pick between being a man of the cloth or staff. How could you combine those abilities with sword fighting best a trained warrior? Pray to that god of yours that you do not run into the Ildonian army, for if you do they will surely best you. Regular military is more deadly than any mercenary you may have fought in that village.”
“That is quite the warning, brother. I am sure my friends would not like to hear what you have to say about how they fight. They would like to have the chance to show you up front and personal how the edge of their blades feels.” Arlin maintained his calm smile.